On Opposite Sides
by lauTOre
Summary: The brothers and the team have to face a new opponent - the Russian Mafia. A very dangerous task that becomes even more difficult since Charlie was forced to leave Don's team. Will they manage to surmount the obstacles and fight the mafia?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own neither the characters nor anything else of Numb3rs. It's a pity, but I can't change anything about it except for dreaming and writing my little stories.  
**Timeline:** between seasons 4 and 5  
**Annotation:** I wrote this story before I knew much about how things were going on in season 5, so there are some mistakes or changing concerning the consequences of Charlie's e-mail to Pakistan in 4-18 "When Worlds Collide". I think they'll get clear in the first chapter and I hope they aren't too annoying in the on-going of the story.

And thanks a lot to Starfishyeti who corrected/is still correcting this rather long story, makes it understandable and even shows and helps me with some logic errors! You're great!

1 – CHAPTER ONE – 1^1 / x^0

Exhausted, Don Eppes leaned back in his office chair, running his hands over his face. They simply weren't getting anywhere! For one month, one whole month, they'd been unable to catch the murderer of one of their agents. Every single one of their tracks ran off into sand. They had come to a stop. And Charlie, who would have been able to help them, wasn't available either.

After the unpleasant incidents with Charlie's colleague Sanjrani, Charlie had lost both his jobs in one go: he wasn't allowed to teach at CalSci (at least not as long as the disciplinary investigation was going on) and neither consult for the FBI as a mathematician (at least not as long as the decision from 'above' wasn't there, and such bureaucratic decisions tended to take a while). Don could imagine how hard it had to be on his brother and he'd tried to talk to him about it, but Charlie had wriggled out of it every time. Actually, Don couldn't think of a single conversation between them after this thing that had contained more than three sentences.

However, Charlie wasn't what one would call unqualified. Don was quite sure he had become independent recently; a self-employed mathematician that apparently didn't mean anything else other than accepting offers of casual work. But at least, casual work wasn't paid badly if you could exhibit a doctoral level, a professor's title and a remarkable mathematical career. Don had followed Charlie's current job career only marginally, though he didn't know anything specific. At the moment, he was a mathematical counselor in a law firm, as far as Don knew. In any case, no longer at the FBI; that was what mattered.

In the Bureau, it was quieter than usual. The hectic hustle was missing. They needed a lead, the quicker the better. Hell, something had to happen! They just couldn't quit this case! That hadn't happened to Don and his team for an eternity! And then with such a case!

One of their agents, a man called Alex Norvtcharov, had been working undercover in the Russian Mafia and had turned up dead. Apparently, they had debunked him, but not before he had been able to give them a lot of names. They even knew who the presumed perpetrator was: Dimitrij Kalinkov, a big shot in the organization. They had no proof, though, so that didn't help them either. The mob's members all gave each other alibis and they couldn't prove anybody anything. With Norvtcharov dead there was nobody who could or would testify against them.

Don was desperate. They'd even had their hands once on Kalinkov! They had questioned him! But nothing; they'd been unable to get anything out of him. And it wasn't for lack of trying.

An icy shudder ran down Don's back. With Kalinkov, all of them – especially himself! – had gone very far, _too_ far. He had applied tactics that normally he wouldn't even have thought of. No torture, no, at least not really. However, he had to acknowledge it, if only to himself, that he hadn't been far from stepping over the line. Don could be happy that Kalinkov hadn't pressed charges against him. But it was just so depressing to know who had killed their colleague and to be unable to do anything.

And Norvtcharov had even given them a clue! He'd wanted to tell them what the mob was planning! It was something big and Norvtcharov had known what it was.

However, he had been killed before giving them any details.

And then, there was his wife, Kelly Norvtcharov. Don understood her pain, sure. Her husband had been killed in a nearly closed undercover-engagement because the FBI hadn't been able to protect him. Of course she was filled with grief and anger. But did that give her the right to pervert their investigations?

She had called in a lawyer. One of those sons of a bitch who apparently took only those cases with which they were able to outtalk the authorities. One of those sharks who were eager for big bucks. If at the same time, you could make a name for yourself by punishing the bad boys from the FBI, the CIA and NSA who were invalidating human rights without remorse, all for the better. Don's gall was bubbling up thinking of the lawyer and his client. He was already looking forward to the conference that was scheduled for this afternoon with approximately as much pleasure as if he was going for appendix surgery. They would again waste valuable hours listening to the lawyer's accusations and defamations. Of course, the FBI had committed mistakes in the past, and the CIA and NSA and whoever was continuing this tradition even now; he couldn't, and wouldn't, deny that. However, he hadn't been in on then, and he wasn't to blame for the machinations of other agencies. And all that mattered for him right now was to put the mob behind bars and find justice for his colleague. Why couldn't the two of them get that? He just didn't want innocent people to be in any further danger!

Don remembered again what had happened the last time when he had had to cope with the Russian Mafia. The mobsters had been chasing behind bank's data and had started to menace his family… it hadn't come so far with this case, thank God. And all of a sudden Don was quite glad that Charlie wouldn't help them this time.

"Don?"

Don jerked up his head. Megan was standing in the door. At least she would have been in the past. But Megan was gone, too. Don had totally forgotten. Or denied? He felt like his team was losing more and more members with time running by.

The image of her blew out. Instead of her, it was Colby who was now turning Don's attention on his own. Turning his attention in a special way. For Colby didn't look depressed, for the first time in days. He was even grinning. "We have a clue."

Finally! It was as though Don's prayers had been listened to. Relief was significant in his voice asking further questions: "What a clue?"

"The man is called José Sanchez. He's in the US illegally, that means he was. He's been yellow to be deported, so he hadn't reported to us the whole time. But now he's got a fix job and all. Anyway, he'd heard a shot at the time of the offense. Then he had checked up what had happened. He had been watching a guy running away from the crime scene shortly after the shot. The description fits Dimitrij Kalinkov."

At a single blow Don's depression turned into eagerness. "Is he willing to testify that?"

"Well, I suppose he'd prefer not to. He'll be here in a minute, though. However, he insists on a reward and on police protection. And on a security that he'll be allowed to stay in the US."

"He shall have that and as much money as he wants. The main thing is we can finally go on!" Don called relieved.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for all the alerts and of course thanks a lot to fighttowin1 for the review! Concerning this sentence from Don… well, just consider it some sort of relieved hyperbole :)  
Hope you enjoy!

2 – CHAPTER TWO – 1.414²

Charlie was again looking at the documents in front of him while his superior, Bernard K. Jamison, was walking up and down next to him in the law firm's conference room. The client, a widow, was sitting on a chair at a large and beside Charlie's and the lawyer's documents empty conference desk. The widow was pale, but she seemed determined to do right by her deceased husband – no matter the cost.

In his mind, Charlie recalled the most important points. Everything was clear and coherent. It would be a child's play and above that a grim joy to knock the stuffing out of their opponents in the following meeting. David against Goliath. The firm and he against the FBI.

His guts still burned when he thought of his colleague Sanjrani and how the FBI had treated him – and himself! Deprived him of his clearance… how could they? How often had he helped them? And now, they were throwing him away. Disposing of him as if they were spitting out a wad of chewing-gum. Just because of one single E-mail! After all that he'd done for them; the hours spent poring over calculations, squeezing in his CalSci work around Don's demands, being shot at, followed… True, he'd been the one to insist that he could help and he'd loved the thrill and immediacy of the work, but they simply couldn't treat him like this! What's more, he'd been right about Sanjrani. And they had been wrong. They had destroyed Sanjrani's life and his career, and Charlie wasn't going to forget that. Oh yes, he was looking forward to this meeting.

"_Charlie?"_

The voice that pulled him out of his thoughts and made him jerk his head around was familiar to him. For a second he was unable to place it, but then he caught sight of Colby Granger coming through the doorframe. Next to him was David, looking no less bewildered. And the man that was just appearing behind them seemed to be as stunned as Charlie. His half-opened lips seemed unable to form a single word. Seemed. That soon changed.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Don's brow furrowed in a frown. "It's you!" he snarled. "_You're_ their consultant!" His tone made it clear that for him, anyone working for Kelly Norvtcharov's lawyer was no better than working for the mafia.

Charlie didn't get a chance to answer and he was secretly glad about it, not wanting to have to justify himself. Fortunately, however, Jamison chimed in. "Oh, you know each other, Mr. –?" he quizzically asked around.

"SAC Eppes. Just a bit", Don retorted coldly, staring intently at his brother, his voice vibrating in Charlie's mind.

"Oh, now I see! Are you related?"

"No," Don responded before Charlie could even open his mouth.

The younger Eppes still wanted to say something without knowing exactly what, but for Jamison the topic was done with a polite "Not? There really are the oddest coincidences!" He barked out a short, fake laugh before clearing his throat and becoming immediately serious in order to begin the briefing. "Well, gentlemen, we all know what you're here for. Therefore, I don't think it'll be necessary to keep on with the small talk. I guess we've outlined our complaints against the FBI rather clearly. Our mathematical consultant is going to explain the details to you now. Dr. Eppes, please?"

Standing, Charlie sensed the imbalance in his body. His stomach suddenly seemed to be filled with stones while his head was empty. What should he do now? He couldn't possibly say the things he had prepared. This wasn't simply about any FBI-team, it was about Don's team! And that was a difference as wide as heaven.

Once more, he regretted his position in the law firm. If he hadn't been the secondary consultant, he wouldn't have been the one who had to make this talk and, more importantly, he would have gotten the real data and with it the real names. On top of that he sure as hell would have been able to work it out if terms like 'the SAC' and 'Agent 3' had been replaced by the real names; Don, David and Colby. Now, however, it was too late for such thoughts.

Charlie's much too brief reprieve had come to an end. He was already standing in front of the white board up at the head of the conference desk. He quickly turned his gaze away from Don who was, arms crossed, leaning back as far as possible. As far as possible away from Charlie. His angry gaze, hitting Charlie like spears, made it impossible for him to look at him further. Instead, his gaze went to Colby and David. But their frosty features didn't make it any easier for him to list the complaints in detail. Therefore, he directed his words to the client, who was thank God looking bitterly at the desk in front of her. At least until now.

"Well" – Damn! Why did his voice sound that throaty? Clearing his throat once – "Well, Mr. Jamison has already explained to you what this is about." Still not any better, he cleared his throat again. "Indeed, I have some points to say that… the FBI could maybe … er, improve some of its procedures." Close to normal again. Yet, his throat was still dry as dust.

Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie noticed Jamison arching his brows, and he didn't have to be a visionary to know why. Charlie had been made responsible for laying out the arguments against the FBI before giving his mathematical information; the argument being that it would create a professional presentation. In their preliminary talk, both of them had been determined to strike with a far more attacking tone. After all, the agency had failed, and that was the reason why their client was a widow now. Of course they wanted the FBI to catch the perpetrators, but they also needed to point out what the FBI had done wrong. Although…

"Well, I've developed a formula that is…"

His supervisor interrupted him, clearing his throat. "Didn't you forget something, Doctor Eppes?" Jamison asked, sanctimoniously, though his features were icy. "You wanted to point out the mistakes the FBI made. Or am _I_ supposed to do that?"

It wasn't a question, it was a threat. Charlie could imagine what would happen to him later if Jamison himself had to present the arguments. _He_ didn't need to stoop so low; he was paying Charlie to do that. Besides, maybe Charlie would be able to turn the greatest harm away from Don's team…

Again, he cleared his throat. "Well. Firstly, the undercover investigation had been arranged without taking due caution…"

"But that wasn't our fault!" Colby interrupted sharply. "Norvtcharov came from another department!"

"Exactly," Charlie agreed, nearly thankful. "That wasn't the fault of your team, Col… Mr. Granger, but the FBI's fault."

First point done, go on with point two. If possible, the situation had become even more uncomfortable to Charlie. He wondered if he could simply let go of the incident. But then Jamison would mention it. And maybe Charlie would be able to cushion the impact a bit. "Then, there was this… incident during an interrogation. Although the reaction of… Special Agent Eppes is very understandable, it's not very… constructive to… step on the suspect's toes in a way that could nullify the FBI's case."

"Dr Eppes wants to say that it was completely unacceptable for you to get so 'testy' with the mobster," Jamison spoke sarcastically.

"Well, _Doctor Eppes _and you have been criticizing our actions pretty much," Don retorted, no less bitter, "but your remarks haven't beenparticularly_ constructive_, either… _Doctor _Eppes."

"Doctor Eppes hasn't finished his explanations yet," Jamison jumped in, adding arrogantly, "Your impatience will get you into serious trouble one day, Agent Eppes. You should really stop being so aggressive. This meeting has only been arranged so that our firm can help the FBI by showing you some of our methods."

_Nice joke_, Charlie thought. Before Don could react to the insulting words and start a fight, he began to rattle out the explanation of his theory shortening it to the most important basics. "We've got a fairly common social network here. People build the most varied social networks, from baseball teams to church communities to universities and federal agencies. With a bipartite network analysis, we can examine the organization's structures and assess who are the real bosses, in this case the mob bosses, and who the weak elements in the chain are. Coming from this and from the information Alex Norvtcharov had given to the FBI before his death, I'll also be able to give the odds for who is the investigator's probable murderer and above all for eventual flaws in the network which are the most likely ones to give information to us. Therefore, however, I'd need the data the FBI is still keeping secret at the moment." He dragged in a breath and sat down in his chair.

He was done. He daren't look up knowing that the FBI agents would be staring at him angrily, especially his brother. He wanted to be anywhere other than here. Unfortunately, his presentation obviously hadn't gone over too well with either the widow or Jamison. He'd played down the situation and not included a lot of the other arguments. He slid down further in his chair feeling the angry glares coming from both sides of the table.

"I'm done," he said, the last word of his recital barely having passed his lips. "May I leave?"

Displeased, Jamison arched his eye-brows, though shrugged. Charlie was immediately out of his chair and turning towards the door when a strong grip on his upper arm held him back.

"Oh no!" Don's voice hissed in his ear. "Who knows, maybe there'll be some questions? You stay here."

Don knew that Charlie wouldn't struggle now. The unnatural, grim requirement of seeing Charlie suffer had won over the desire that his little brother would keep out of his sight for good.

Traitor! How could he have turned on them? Yeah, somehow Don could understand that Charlie was angry with the FBI. But that didn't give him the right to, denigrate him, Don, and his team! One of their agents was dead and Don had been responsible for him! He knew that, but they were already doing everything to clear up the whole unfortunate situation! And now it seemed it was to become their undoing?

Granted… the methods had been more than ugly. Gradually, as the case went on, Don became more and more afraid of how far he would go to solve this case and make the perps disappear behind bars. He knew that he'd already crossed a line. This suspect… At least, thanks to Sanchez's statement they now had an arrest warrant against this Kalinkov. But in the back of his mind, he had one question: _How far would he have gone?_

Don was starting to be afraid of himself.

There was a little pause before Jamison, more arrogant than ever, took up again. "You've listened to the facts, agents. So, if you don't want to cause any more problems, it'd make the most sense to include my firm in your investigations. Our math consultant will be able to figure out what you've missed."

There was an icy, hostile silence for a while. Finally, David plucked up his courage: "Now how exactly does that work with this net…work?" he inquired, a bit acidly.

Charlie felt his tension loosen up as he started explaining the thing more thoroughly: how the method was working, which information he needed, what they could achieve and much more. The federal agents knew that they would need Charlie's help, but that wasn't really improving the atmosphere in the room. Charlie wished he could escape to the moon. He was beginning to wonder why he'd agreed to consult for Jamison.

Finally, however, they got a result: Don, David and Colby would check the issue with the AD first before taking further steps. It was clear to every one of the attendees where this was going to end, namely to Charlie collaborating on the case. And of the six people in the room, two thirds weren't greatly enamoured of the situation.

But at least, the briefing was finished with that, and Charlie literally flew out of the room. He wanted to get away from everybody as quickly as possible. He had to think rapidly; where could he hide. At home? No, Don would come there in few minutes to take him to task. And before it could come to a fight with Don, Charlie had to think about his arguments for his defence. And he had no clue on Earth of how he could justify his behaviour. And Jamison wasn't really likely to offer him his help for his plea.

So he took his bicycle and went to CalSci. Indeed, he didn't feel perfectly comfortable entering the campus, but at least he would be able to talk to Larry or Amita here. He wondered where the two of them were. When Don had looked for them, in earlier times, he had most often found them in Charlie's office. However, since the room currently _wasn't_ Charlie's office, he didn't even consider that opportunity. Probably they were in Larry's office; at least he'd find one of the pair there. It was always worth trying. So he locked his bike and set off.

* * *

"Charles! To what do I owe this honour?" Larry greeted him gladly, though turning immediately back to the piles of paper on his desk.

"Are you free for a sec?"

"Uh-oh, that doesn't sound good at all," Larry murmured, deep in his documents.

"That's the understatement of the year."

Larry glanced at him before turning his gaze to the chaos of papers again, obviously looking for something. "Is it about a case for Don?" he inquired, being trapped in his usual confusion. He didn't notice the look Charlie gave him that had it reached its target would probably have killed him.

"Larry, I don't work with Don anymore or have you already forgotten that?" Charlie squeezed out the words between clenched teeth, exhaling violently. "Rather against him."

Now finally Larry was looking at him directly. "Oh… yeah, right." He stopped shortly. "Wait – what do you mean, 'against him'?"

Exhausted, Charlie let himself fall onto a chair. "I've told you about this new job of mine, right?"

"Uh… yes, yes… I think I remember."

"Well, this team I had to anatomize – it's Don's team."

"Oh. Well… that's not quite optimal."

"Not optimal?" Charlie gasped, jerking to his feet. _"Not optimal?_ It's a catastrophe! Who knows, maybe I'll be out of another job by tomorrow! Mr Jamison hates me! The widow hates me! David and Colby hate me! And don't even talk about Don! He'll probably kill me the next time he sees me!"

"Well… if you've made the talk you'd presented to me… then he probably considers you an opportunistic and faithless traitor that projects his hatred of the FBI onto his brother."

Exhausted, Charlie again let himself fall onto the chair, laying his head back. Filled with a sudden weariness, he closed his eyes. "Thanks, Larry. You're a great help to me," he said hollowly and the sarcasm was thick enough to touch.

However, Larry remained insistent. "The analysis of your situation will help you to find a solution."

"I don't think that there is a solution to my problem. Only, maybe suicide."

Larry was looking at him. "I think you should reappraise your findings."

However, Charlie didn't have an opportunity to respond.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?"

Charlie jerked up. He had hardly stood up from his chair when he was almost pulled off his feet again. Don had stormed into Larry's office. He grabbed his little brother by the collar and pushed him against the wall. "WELL? WHAT DOES IT MEAN?" he continued to blast at him.

"I… I…," Charlie stammered, but he couldn't go on.

"Yes, you, you, always only you!" Don shouted. "I know you're mad at the FBI – but it doesn't entitle you to criticise us like that!"

"But I didn't know…," Charlie whimpered helplessly. He tried to make eye contact with Larry (because that meant not looking into his brother's anger-filled eyes), but he only caught a glimpse of a totally confused and petrified Professor Fleinhardt.

"You didn't know!" Don shouted at him harshly. "What? That I'm with the FBI? That people don't connive behind their friends' backs? What the hell were you thinking? Did you just want to show the whole world again what a bright boy you are? Talk to me! Over there you managed to talk enough!"

He pulled him back and then pushed him again against the wall. Charlie shook his head, trying think coherently. Don must have driven himself into an even deeper rage on the way over. He couldn't be at his senses. This man couldn't be Don, not the insightful and understanding brother he had become for Charlie in the past couple of years. What for God's sake, was driving him? Why was he acting like a madman?

"Stop it!" Charlie shouted and Don was so surprised by his sudden resistance that he actually let go of him. However, the pit between them didn't justify the rise in volume. "What's the matter with you? Why are you being so aggressive?"

"ME! AGGRESSIVE? So what was your claptrap over there?"

"You know exactly that I said the truth!"

"_That's_ the way you want to justify it? What sort of logic is that? I can also say: 'My brother is a mean little asshole that likes acting up and pretending to be bigger than he actually is.' Will you agree with me, huh, just because it's the truth?"

Charlie didn't say anything anymore. He didn't know what to say. There wasn't anything he could say. He didn't want to show how much Don's words were hurting him. _A mean little asshole… bigger than he was… that acts up…_

So that was the way Don actually thought about him. As if out of nowhere, a magazine page appeared in Charlie's mind; Don had been interviewed by a magazine concerning Charlie's book. _If there's anything stronger than the bond between brothers, it's the bond between brothers who have become friends. Charlie is my friend._ The whole thing was only empty words? Did Don say such things only that he could use Charlie for his cases with the FBI?

"Leave." Charlie said it completely calmly. However, its impact was the same as if he had shouted. But he couldn't shout anymore. He couldn't see Don anymore now. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to think. He had to find out how the relationship between his brother and himself really looked like. Had everything really been mere illusion?

Don laughed briefly. "Do you want to boss me around or what? But you can't throw me out. This isn't your office. You've got nothing at all to say here."

Charlie shook his head. "You know what? I don't have to do this," he responded coldly and calmly although the others could hear the slight tremor in his voice. Before his brother could notice the wet glimmer in his eyes, Charlie quickly stepped out of Larry's office, slamming the door behind him.

"Yeah, get lost!" Don called after him. "That's all you can do, just fly away!"

"Well, honestly, Don…" Larry gasped.

"Don't say anything," Don cut him off. He didn't want to talk to anybody now. He certainly didn't want to hear the reproaches he was convinced were coming. And right now, he didn't want to think about his actions, even if he knew that they might not have been completely correct. He wanted to hold onto his anger and be able to point out his brother's bad actions.

Don stomped off the campus. He kept his anger on the boil, but could now feel it mixed with desperation as he thought about how Charlie had slammed the door behind him creating a barrier between them. And then, all of a sudden, he saw Charlie's bike almost as if it was waiting for him. Without thinking for long, Don let the air out of the tyres. Charlie should see how it felt to simply not be going anywhere.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for your interest and feedback! And yes, Don's harsh reaction will be relativated in the following chapter(s).  
Please enjoy!

3 – CHAPTER THREE – 1.442³

Mr Eppes entered the living room with two bottles of beer and handed one of them to his son. "By the way, have you seen Charlie?"

"Charlie? Er, yeah… He told me he might be working late today." Don took the bottle of beer, but didn't touch its contents. He was sick. A queasy feeling had been spreading through his stomach. Perhaps it was his conscience?

Charlie had deserved it, however. He'd certainly been out of order. How the hell had it entered into his mind to work on this mob case together with the first lawyer who'd come along? And against him, Don, against his own brother? Of course Charlie had deserved one in the eye for this. He had to realize that he, in no uncertain way, had to keep his hands off this mafia case!

And besides, Don hadn't really done anything bad. You could still pump the tires up again. Don still had the valves. All that could be fixed. It wasn't as if he had damaged anything. However, what he had said in Larry's office… _what _had he said again? Don remembered only dimly, as if the whole thing had simply been an ugly nightmare. At any rate, there'd been harsh things said; things he hadn't meant that way…

Heavens, what had gotten into him? How had he been able to attack Charlie like that, Charlie, his baby-brother? What was going on with him recently?

_It's this silly case_, Don thought defiantly, nearly desperately. They finally had to stop this mafia group before something terrible would happen. And if Charlie was now getting involved… Oh no, anything but that! How would Don get a moment's peace then?

"Is everything alright between you two?" Alan's voice brought him back into the here and now.

Don decided to lie, completely spontaneously. If their father now started to get involved too, that would just make the whole thing more complicated. "Of course it is. Why?" Surely his father hadn't noticed how irritated Don had come in, right?

"I don't know. I only thought…" Alan didn't finish his sentence. "Well, I'm going to bed then. You're staying overnight?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm staying."

For this decision, Don had needed less spontaneity. He would wait for Charlie. And this time, he wouldn't let Charlie run away like his brother always did. Don had to talk to him and to apologise. He knew it even though he also knew that Charlie was in the wrong. They had to dispose of this thing once and for all. It had never been a problem before that Don worked at the FBI! Why should everything suddenly be different? No, they had to clear that up eventually. Alex Norvtcharov's destiny had showed Don that you couldn't always rely on a 'later'.

More in order to distract himself, Don looked at the clock. Only 10 pm. And yet, he felt already so exhausted that he could barely keep his eyes open. His inner clock was seriously winding down. It urgently had to be wound up again. He had to wait for Charlie, though. He would certainly come home soon. In the meanwhile Don could as well take a look at the file. Maybe something would catch his eye that they hadn't noticed until now.

However, the words didn't really find a way into Don's mind. He couldn't concentrate. His thoughts were distracted again and again. And then, in perfect slowness, his eyes closed and the file slipped out of his hand.

* * *

It was late summer. The sun was shining warmly onto the two of them, making her hair shine golden. She was fair and beautiful. Lost in thought, she was looking across the deep-blue ocean spreading out endlessly in front of them.

She turned towards him, smiled silently and took his hand in hers. They were walking over the warm, soft sand, wordlessly and perfectly happy. The beach was quiet and deserted; nothing to disturb them, no creature near or far. No creature unless the fire-red one crawling out of the sea in the not too far distance. A cancer. Alan's throat tightened.

He awoke. The rushing sea yielded to the gently drumming of raindrops against the windowpanes. The sea, the beach, the cancer and Margaret – everything had disappeared. Nevertheless, Alan was looking through the dark at his hands. They were empty. He had just dreamed everything. Only the dry feeling in his throat was still there.

On the spur of the moment Alan set out for downstairs into the kitchen. He wouldn't be able to get back to sleep quickly, anyway.

The light in the living-room was on, lighting the clock on the wall. Just half past eleven. But it wasn't the only thing the light revealed: on the sofa, there was a sleeping Don whose right arm was hanging down, seemingly pointing at a grey-brown file. While Alan let the water float down his throat, looking down at his eldest son, an idea was forming in his mind.

* * *

Charlie was still in a weird mood, too depressed and confused to be angry, but too angry to be sad and thoughtful. He felt strangely lost.

At some point in time, he had come back to Larry, though he had been blocking Larry's attempts to talk about the things that had occurred. He didn't want to talk. In the past, he'd been confiding in Larry only too gladly. However, so many things had gone to pieces. Everything was different now.

Finally, they had gone to the campus, watching the first stars appear before the clouds had become thicker bringing rain with them. They'd said good-bye and Charlie had gone to his bicycle. As soon as opening the lock he had remarked that something wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Then he had detected that the valves of the inner tubes were missing. And he didn't have to think for long to find out to whom he owed this mess. And still, he could hardly believe it – Don, his brother Don, had made let out the air of his tires? But that was far below his dignity!

Still, it didn't make sense in getting annoyed about it now. He couldn't change it. Larry had already left, so Charlie willy-nilly hit the road on foot on his way home. Generally, it wouldn't have been unwelcome to him to think things through by walking through the cool night air. He also thought wryly that he would have been able to do that on his bike as well. And with his bike he probably would have escaped the worst part of the rain. However, in principle the rain didn't bother him much. At least it cooled the atmosphere and made the air cleaner.

The heavy drops were now pounding Charlie, creating a bit of inner satisfaction. His head became clear. He would have to talk to Don, to make it clear to him that his actions certainly couldn't be seen to be totally acceptable. Indeed, he would have preferred to avoid this conversation, but it couldn't go on like this for much longer. After all, it was one thing to shun a conflict; but it was a completely different thing to be forced to use these sorts of tactics with one's own brother.

Soppy, he entered the house through the garage, directly installing his bicycle there. Where in earlier times calculations for Don's cases had adorned the blackboards you could now see terms and formulas for the law firm. Only Charlie's cognitive emergence theory had borne up under all the changes. He let his gaze wander across the calculations and was just wondering if he should go to bed immediately or better still work for a while when he realized that something wasn't right. Something didn't fit in the general view here. For although many people would like to call his garage untidy, there was order in his chaos. And to him there was obviously a disturbance in this order. Charlie looked more intensely and nearly immediately discovered the file on the desk.

Confused, he flipped it open. It quickly became clear to him what he was holding in his hands: Don's current case file. What was it doing here? A consolation prize? Some sort of message? Did people arrange this sort of thing among FBI-agents? Did Don maybe expect Charlie to simply accept the file and pretend that nothing had happened? Were these the conditions; so that he'd talk to Charlie in a normal way again? "You have some nerve, Don," Charlie murmured, though at once scanning the pages almost automatically for clues that would help him to set up some kind of equation. He had already made up his mind working the case for the firm. And if here – yes! There it was.

Filled with fresh energy Charlie started to work. In all the excitement he had completely forgotten how wet he was.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks a lot for reading (and reviewing)! I'm always glad to learn what you think about the story! It's quite a long one, so please don't get too bored if there don't happens much during the first few chapters. We're getting somewhere, though...

4 – CHAPTER FOUR – 1.414^4

Don squinted. Even before he fully opened his eyes, he sensed every single one of his stiff muscles aching. He should really take to sleeping in a bed, he thought wryly.

It was morning. Through the curtains, careful sunrays were leaking in and above, he heard a door open. After numerous years in this house it wasn't difficult anymore to figure out that his father had just left the bathroom.

Don was abruptly awake. Geez, he had wanted to talk to Charlie! How on Earth had he been able to fall asleep then? However, by Don's guessing, now wasn't the right moment, either. If he wanted to apologize to Charlie, then he shouldn't drag him out of the bed in the morning. In addition, he had to go to work. He only needed – damn, where was this stupid file? On the table? No. Under the couch? Neither. Under the cushions? No. Don turned around looking everywhere. There weren't many possibilities here. He even lifted the carpet a bit. Nothing.

"Dad? Dad, have you seen my file anywhere?"

"What file?" Alan's voice echoed from upstairs.

Don gave in. Fortunately, it had only been a copy. He quickly shuffled into the bathroom and was just about to leave the house when he abruptly reduced his speed on the stairs from the second to the first floor. There, on the dining table, was the file. He briefly wondered how it might have gotten there before he grabbed it and left the house.

* * *

The alarm-clock rang much too early for Charlie's taste. Had he really slept? He had avoided looking at the clock when he had finally gone to bed. Otherwise, he would have automatically figured out how many hours (or maybe minutes? That was much more likely…) sleep would have been left for him. In any case it was too little.

For a few seconds, Charlie simply lay there until he managed to conquer his weaker self and to lurch out of bed. In the bathroom, he managed to wake himself up a bit, awake enough at least to notice that the file wasn't lying on the table downstairs anymore. He was completely certain he had put it there before going up to bed. That meant that Don had already left and taken it with him. Charlie had heard him sleeping on the couch last night when he, after the work having been done, had trudged his way upstairs in the dark – too tired to switch on the light.

With Norvtcharov's file he was ready, yes, but he still needed lots more data for his network analysis from uncountable other files about uncountable other cases until the job was completed.

While he was riding to CalSci – hopefully the fresh air would awaken him completely – he was wondering what he had been expecting. It had been clear that Don would take the file back to the office. But that he hadn't spoken with him at all? At least a 'thank-you' or even a simple 'Can you have a look at it?' were the least Charlie could expect, couldn't he? But nothing, not the tiniest word, not the rinkiest-dinkiest note. Apparently, Don planned to never contact Charlie again.

Only the 'math stuff' he was allowed to do; yeah, he was good enough for that. _You don't get anywhere, Don, then come to me, I'll help you. I mean it's not like I don't have other things to do. Talk to me? Come on, why on Earth would you do that?_

A car honked, and Charlie braked sharply. His heart jumped into his throat when he realized what he had just done: he had nearly cut off a driver's right of way. And on his bike, Charlie probably would have come off worse than the driver of the car.

Charlie breathed deeply and shakily. _This is getting every better and better_, he thought sarcastically. _I've just nearly killed myself because of you, Don_. Another voice in Charlie's mind told him that he was being unfair to his brother, but he managed to get rid of both voices and to concentrate on the traffic. Maybe he'd manage to arrive at CalSci unharmed after all.

* * *

Don was sitting in his office, opening the copy of Alex Norvtcharov's file. A mid-thirty something face looked back at him. Involuntarily the widow's distraught face came up in his mind's eye.

He scrolled on to the forensic examination – maybe they'd overlooked something after all? – when a sheet of paper slid out of the file and onto the floor. Don stooped and picked it up. He looked down at the scrawl in confusion. On the paper, there were different names. All of them seemed to be taken from the file and belonged to potential members of the mob. Beneath that, some abbreviations and signs of which he could make nor head nor tail. And everything in Charlie's handwriting.

What was the meaning of this? How did a paper with Charlie's handwriting get into this file? No way should Charlie's writing be anywhere near this file! Charlie wasn't even allowed to look at it! Not as long as their boss hadn't decided that the FBI would call in the firm's consultant – namely him! How had Charlie got around to doing that? Especially after everything Don had hurled at him yesterday…

"Geez, Charlie…," Don murmured suddenly feeling an ache in his stomach. So Charlie had continued. He had gone on to help them although Don had criticized because of him consulting for the law firm. _You coward; call it as it is, Don. You shouted at him_, Don rebuked himself, annoyed, and the desire to kick at something hard was rising again. But why the hell had Charlie done the calculations anyway? Had he done that for the law firm or for them, the FBI?

Don laughed listlessly and shook his head. As if Charlie would have helped him after all that. He had done it for the firm, that was obvious…

And for that he had pilfered an FBI file!

The sense of guilt inside him yielded to an anger that was much easier to bear. Charlie had taken a file, without permission! How had he got around it? He had used Don's job at the FBI and his access to the case files, and he had used Don's tiredness to literally steal it out of his hands! He had betrayed Don once again!

Betrayed. The expression tugged at something in Don's mind and increased his directionless fury.

"Don? The boss wants you."

Don's head jerked up at to the voice and his eyes found David. "What's that?" his colleague wanted to know. Don managed to let the paper disappear and only shot a bad tempered, "Not important," over his shoulder before he hurried towards Merrick's office.

A quarter of an hour later, Colby looked up from his computer screen hearing something cleaving noisily through the FBI bullpen – Don. Colby wasn't sure what drove him to ask. It wasn't as if he was weary of life, but he couldn't resist it.

"And… what did Merrick want?" he asked with a certain precaution.

Don gave him a brief glare before he answered. "Not hard to guess, is it?" he snarled. "He wanted Charlie to help us with the investigations. He was quite pissed because we're not getting on."

"And with both the widow and the press putting so much pressure on him he wants that to change," Colby speculated.

"So what?" Don snapped at him. "We'll make it without him as well! We don't need Charlie!"

"For what don't we need Charlie?"

David joined them, a file in his hand. By now, Don was getting fed up with his own mood. It just didn't stop! With every minute, he grew more aggressive. And why did David ask what they _didn't _need Charlie for rather than ask what they needed Charlie for?

"For quite a lot," Don therefore retorted quite snottily, "and even less for this crackbrained case about Norvtcharov!"

"Oh," David said and understanding bloomed on his face. He barely couldn't hold off a 'That's how the land lies'. Sure, Colby and he had been angry that Charlie hadn't only switched sides, but had also betrayed and defamed his friends, but their irritation was nothing against Don's resentful fury. Indeed, David didn't want to fall victim to it, however, he gradually wondered if he preferred having a ticking bomb as an SAC or an immediate explosion. At least, it would be over and Don then would only smolder a bit.

David cleared his throat before he carefully, but determinedly sparked the fuse: "Actually, why are you so grumpy?"

Don didn't answer. He didn't exactly know it himself. Sure, Charlie's betrayal had added its part to it as well as Merrick's readiness to forget this betrayal and the FBI's own mistakes in the past. But could that already be everything?

In any case, it was certain that Don hated the case. One of their agents had been killed. He hadn't known him that well, yeah, but it could have been as easily one of his own team or himself. Norvtcharov had died during an assignment for the FBI, an agency dismissing people due to their attempts to give aid to underdeveloped countries. However, it was even worse that Don liked working for the agency and that he was good at it. Then there was still Norvtcharov's widow adding pressure to them (how on Earth Norvtcharov had managed to find a wife in spite of his job?). The mob was behind it. And now Charlie was taking a hand in it, too; Charlie who used him. No, you couldn't name a _single_reason for Don's frustration.

"Don?"

David had waited for the blowout, but it had stayed away. The spark must have been extinguished somewhere on its way. Should he really ignite it anew? "If you don't talk to us, we can't help you. I mean, we all think that Charlie's been a bit stupid here–"

"CHARLIE'S BEEN A BIT STUPID?"

And wham. You should never give up hope. However, instead of subsiding, the explosion seemed to increase in intensity. "And then what has the FBI done, please? What have _we_ done? What are we doing here every fucking day? What has Norvtcharov done? Crap, and damned crap! Each time, we just scrape the bodies off the asphalt! We don't make _any _difference, not a bit! Every day we peg away, and do whatever they want us to, and for the rest, we don't give a shit! And if someone wants to _do _something, if someone really wants to make a difference, he's kicked out, just like Charlie!"

Maybe he should have waited until the fuse had had a chance to go out, David wondered dimly, standing next to Colby and staring at his SAC with his mouth open. Okay, Don wasn't fine. At least that was clear.

"Oh, just get off my back," Don murmured, turning his gaze away from their shocked features and disappearing into the break room.

He hadn't been there long when he heard the door open behind him. Without turning he knew that it was Colby and that he wanted to talk to him about what he had said – or better shouted. Weird. Earlier, such things would have been Megan's part. But Colby? Besides, Don didn't know if he was capable of having a crisis talk right at that moment.

"You wanna talk about anything?" Colby inquired, his voice calm, but at the same time brisk.

Don didn't answer. Yes? No? Who the hell should be able to decide that! Colby however didn't seem to be bothered by Don's singular behavior, and went on digging. "Is it just because of the case or is there something else? Something with Charlie?" Really, just like Megan. Although in the beginning, Colby had rather smiled at the 'psycho stuff'.

"Oh, don't start talking about Charlie," Don grumbled. If he already wanted to force him to talk, he just shouldn't start with the biggest chunk. He didn't even know himself how he thought about Charlie at the moment.

Don was lost in his thoughts and didn't even notice as his colleague left the kitchen. He had found it brave that Charlie had sent this E-Mail. Brave – and unbelievably silly. Charlie must have known that this would have consequences! He would have had to have known that it could lead to having his security clearance revoked and thus the possibility of working together with his brother. And yet he had done it. Without hesitating. As if he couldn't have waited any longer to set an end to his consulting.

And as if that hadn't been enough, he then had also to attack the FBI like this! And not only the FBI, but above all his own brother and his team! Charlie had betrayed him without even doing so much as batting an eye. He couldn't have made it more obvious that he didn't like to have dealings with Don any longer.

No dealings any longer. But Don's job as a federal agent at least had been very convenient for Charlie in order to suck up to his new bosses. Don wondered if he would ever forgive his brother that he had pilfered the file, that he had used Don. Or had Charlie simply done that as an act of revenge, because Don had used _him_?

_But I didn't want that_, Don thought sadly and desperately, and he jerked when something clinked. He looked down at his cup and saw that he'd been clutching his coffee mug so tightly that he'd broken the handle.

The desperate anger was rising again, and Don threw the two parts of the handle into the cup and pushed it into a corner on the counter. Why was everything falling apart?


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for reading and for your feedback, I always appreciate it!  
Hope you like it.

5 – CHAPTER FIVE – 1.379^5

Don opened the door. "It's me!" he called into the house, exhausted by a long day's work.

"Ah, Donnie!" His father rose from the couch.

After a short, "Hi, Dad," Don's gaze fell on the television where a black and white film was playing. His father had probably just turned on the television to wait for his oldest son.

"I was already afraid you wouldn't come anymore. It's good that we waited for you despite everything. You can already go and call Charlie; dinner's as good as ready."

He didn't have had to tell Don; the odor of braised meat had already wafted up to his nose when he'd entered the house. However, his joy regarding the meat wasn't great enough to suppress a feeling he couldn't quite classify, but was very similar to irritation and that had extended inside Don at hearing Charlie's name.

His father disappeared into the kitchen, and Don heard a hysterical female voice from the television: "Do you know what you've done to me? You have no business being here! Leave! Come on, get lost or I'll shoot!"

Don looked at the screen and saw some blond actress trying to threaten an unpleasant looking guy with a gun in her theatrically trembling hands. "And if you don't shut up at once and hold the gun with both hands," he murmured, turning the television off with his mood decreasing steadily, "your arm is going to tremble and you'll drop the weapon or you will be shot."

He went to the garage. He was certain that Charlie was already brooding over the copies of the files David had brought along this afternoon. The law firm will surely be glad. "Charlie!" he called, acknowledging the commanding tone of his voice a bit reluctantly. The fact that he didn't get an answer didn't really make his mood better. "Charlie, come on! Dinner!"

* * *

Alan grinned to himself when he heard Don call for his brother with his slightly annoyed voice. There were things that would never change. However, his grin faded much too fast, thinking of the problems his two sons had to be facing at the moment. It seemed that they still hadn't managed to find an accord. Well, they hadn't seen each other much since last night when Alan had helped a bit with the file. But maybe the mood would brighten up over a tasty dinner?

A sudden ring at the door startled him out of his thoughts. Who might that be? He wasn't expecting expect visitors.

After a quick look at the meat that could – depending on the visitor – serve as a practical excuse, Mr Eppes hurried towards the front door and opened it. Outside, there were two men with baseball caps and sunglasses they hadn't taken off despite the darkness.

"Hello, Mr Eppes!" the one closer to Alan greeted. "Are Don and Charlie here? We have to talk to them about something."

Slightly astonished, Alan turned towards the house and called in, "Don, Charlie! Visitors for you!" He was just about to turn towards the two men to inquire the reason of their visit and to ask them into the house, when an iron-hard arm was laid around his neck and something ice-cold was pushed against his temple.

"No sound, Mr Eppes," the man Alan just had spoken with hissed, "or I'll pull the trigger."

Alan couldn't have got a sound out of his throat anyway; at least not while this guy was squeezing his airway shut. He heard the back door open and his sons come closer, fogged in silence. He wanted to call out a warning, to hold them back – but they had already come in.

Don and Charlie stopped abruptly. Instinctively, Don stretched out his left arm to hold Charlie back while his right hand was scrabbling for his gun.

"I'd let go of that if I were you," the second intruder said, his voice vibrating. "Come on, hands up, both of you!"

While they followed the order it crossed Don's mind how unreal this whole situation was. They were being assaulted, his family and him, here, in Charlie's home! At home! That wasn't possible!

Don sensed Charlie trembling beside him. He couldn't blame him. He, too, felt a cold shudder down his back at the sight revealed to him: their father, under the thumb of some unknown guy, a gun at his temple. A gun that could go off at any moment, especially if the invaders were frightened and lost control.

"Hey, you!" invader number two called to Charlie. Charlie jerked slightly. "Come on, take the gun from him" – he briefly indicated Don with his weapon – "and lay it on the floor. But slowly and with your fingertips!"

Don was thinking feverishly. There had to be something he could do, anything… If he, as quickly as a flash, pulled his gun? Or called for help? At this time their neighbors must still be awake, surely somebody would hear them… But he couldn't take the risk. He mustn't endanger his family. The most reasonable thing to do would be to just follow these guys' orders; as hard as it would be.

Charlie had already turned halfway towards Don and stared at him with questioning eyes. This was his big brother, the FBI agent. Couldn't he save them? Don gave him a brisk nod and held his jacket open. Charlie swallowed and pulled the gun out from the holster with trembling fingertips. As if in slow motion, he bent and laid it on the floor. The two intruders didn't turn their eyes away from Don or him for a second.

"And now tie him," the guy ordered to him, throwing at him a thin rope.

Don took down his hands and sensed how Charlie's unnaturally cold fingers were fiddling behind his back trying to get the rope around his wrists. He wanted to calm him down – Charlie couldn't freak out now! – but he couldn't think of a way of doing it. Instead, another idea suddenly occurred to him. He eased his hands apart a bit. He sensed how Charlie's cold fingers paused briefly, then formed a knot.

"You ready?" number two pushed, and carefully came round Don, gun drawn, in order to be able to get a glimpse of his hands. Then, without warning, he lifted his weapon and hit it against Charlie's temple and Charlie careened into the wall.

Alan, still in number one's hard grip, gasped. Don automatically shot around to invader number two, but the other man's voice made him turn to stone. "Don't move, or your father has a bullet in his head."

Don didn't stir. Instead, he stared at the man who'd hit his brother with a look full of hatred. Hatred and desperate worry. He at least wanted to turn around, see how Charlie was, just turn his head; but he was afraid of what number one would do then. He had no idea just how professional or in control of their actions they were.

Thank God he heard Charlie gasp behind him. At least he was conscious, although he was certainly seeing stars. He appeared to be on his legs again, for number two hissed, "No more tricks, got it? Now tie him up properly, but hurry!"

This time, Don didn't dare give the tiniest resistance.

Number two was watching mistrustfully as Charlie bound Don's wrists tightly. As soon as he was finished, he in turn found himself with cord around his wrists. Number two seemed to have a lot of fun seeing how tightly he could pull the rope. Don noticed how Charlie's face contorted in pain.

He then pulled two rags that might have been dishtowels one time out of his pocket and stuffed them into each of the two brothers' mouths. Gags. As if they would be so silly to shout for help.

"Okay, no poor tricks anymore, got it?" number one hissed in a dangerously low voice. Then, unceremoniously, he banged his gun against Alan's temple. Alan crashed against the wall and slid down it to the floor.

Through the gag, Don heard his brother gasp and he himself was staring with wide, angry eyes. Fortunately, it meant that he could see that Alan's chest was moving. At least their father was alive.

Don had barely noted this happy observation when he noted something totally different. He took a stumbling step forward when the barrel of the handgun hit him between his shoulder blades. He couldn't suppress a strained moan, and without being able to struggle against the invaders he shambled forward out of the door and down the few steps to the little transporter the kidnappers had come in. If only someone would see them… But nothing happened. Behind him, Don merely heard the unsteady steps of his brother.

Alan moaned inwardly when they left the house, as if he was feeling how his sons were being taken away from him. He then slipped into the black cover of unconsciousness.

* * *

Even before opening his eyes, Alan sensed the pulsing ache in his head. For some seconds he couldn't remember what had happened. Then, the fraction-like scenes of the things having occurred hit him with all their cruel force and meaning.

They had been assaulted!

Where were his sons?

Alan ordered himself to open his eyes. He was dizzy, but he forced himself to overcome his weakness, and soon he was able to see. But his sons were gone.

"Donnie? Charlie?" On wobbly legs, Alan sat up, trotting aimlessly around the room. His raised his shaky voice, "Don! Charlie! Where are you!"

He got no answer, though. He was alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks to all who read and of course to all who review! I'm always glad if you let me know what you think about the story and/or what I could do better!  
Please enjoy!

6 – CHAPTER SIX – 1.348^6

"Go ahead! Down here!"

Slowly, Charlie descended the ladder down into the cellar of the little house. It wasn't too easy with bound hands, and the way the ropes had been cutting into his flesh for the past three hours – or four, maybe even five? - wasn't helping. If he thought about it properly, it rather seemed a week – while you had been sitting in a small van being beamed on by a strong torch, still recognizing the thing that was directed at you as a weapon. At last, they had freed them of their gags. And at least, they now knew that there were least three opponents; invaders number one and two and a driver. At some point of time however, the vehicle had stood still for some time and they were quite sure that there, the driver had changed. Unfortunately, they had had to acknowledge that these guys were professionals enough not to offer them either an opportunity to escape or call for help. Why they had been kidnapped stayed a riddle, though.

"Come on now, faster!"

One of the kidnappers kicked at Charlie's shoulder, and Charlie nearly lost his balance. However, shortly afterwards he was standing on solid ground and only few seconds later Don was standing beside him. For some short seconds they saw their surroundings in the bright light that was drifting through the skylight. It looked like a dungeon: the walls were in stone and seemed to be very thick. They were unplastered. On the floor there was straw. Up high in a wall, directly beneath the ceiling, there was a little window, and on the other end of the wall up high as well, a ventilation shaft. There didn't seem to be much more, but they couldn't determine it either way because the ladder had already been pulled up and with a horrible squeal and creak, the kidnappers locked the skylight and left them in darkness and silence.

"So, what now?"

Don's voice echoed a bit. It was the first time that one of them had spoken since they had left the house. "Any proposals, you little math genius?"

"What is this? Do you really have to snarl at me like this again?"

"Looks like a torture chamber in a European castle," Don retorted, seemingly without context and in an icy tone. The kidnapping hadn't improved his mood any and the anger was a useful protection. "Fits," he continued. "For I hope you know that you're the last man on Earth I want to be locked up with."

"Yeah, likewise!"

"Yeah, I can imagine," Don scoffed. "You sure as hell would want to leave right away."

"If you really want to know, yes!" Charlie retorted hotly. "For I've got better things to do than to run to seed down here in this hole!"

"Then think up how you want us to escape from here. I'm curious."

"Know what?" Charlie argued. The fury made his eyes glimmer with fire. "That's typical! You've got no clue how it's gonna go on, and I'm supposed to put everything right for you! Just the same thing like in this mafia case! You know how –"

"I knew it!" his brother interrupted him. "So you admit that you took the file!"

A part of Charlie's fury gave way to confusion. The fire in his eyes had collapsed a bit, but it was still present. "Of course."

"Of course?" Don rose up. "Tell me, just what did you think you were doing? You've got no security clearance anymore! You aren't allowed to look at these files, let alone take them!"

Charlie believed he had understood wrong. "W-w-wait a sec – are you serious? First you put this file in my garage so I can help you once more dig you out of a hole, and then you bark at me because of it?"

"What? What – what rubbish are you talking about? I didn't put the file in your garage!"

Charlie didn't believe a single word. "No?" he scoffed. "So who was it, if I may ask?"

Hostilely, they glared at each other despite the fact that they could barely make out the other's face in the wan moonlight. And then it dawned on them.

"I don't believe it," Charlie mumbled.

"Still. Can't be otherwise," Don responded, flattened as well. The realization was rising up in them in big waves. It had been their father… because he didn't want his sons to argue… And now…

Don rose to speak again first. "Uh, Charlie, I…" He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry that I –"

"No, no, no. Never mind," Charlie interrupted; his forehead slightly puckered, still occupied with trying to assimilate the truth. "You thought I'd sort-of stolen the file, after all. It's clear then why you're behaving like this. Anyway, I'm not allowed to even look at them."

"No, I mean earlier."

"Oh. Yeah. Mhm," Involuntarily, Charlie's tone became cooler. "What do you mean specifically? The 'mean little asshole', or that I act up, or that you emptied my tires of air, or –"

"Please, stop."

"Why should I?"

"It wasn't at all meant that way! And I'd be too happy if I could make it unhappen. But it's simply this daft case! And I was simply so angry because –"

"Yeah, I know," Finally, Charlie's voice didn't sound cool anymore. "I shouldn't have made this stupid talk, not after I've known that you were the team this was about. It was… I don't even know why I've gone through with it in spite of everything."

They were silent for some seconds. They each felt so lost, as if they were swimming all alone, each one apart from the other, in a huge ocean.

"Friends again?" Don finally asked, cautiously.

"Of course," Charlie answered, relief audible in his words.

As if to demonstrate the release of the tension that had been between them, they sat on the floor. Don decided – and he thought he could feel Charlie's approval – to push the still pulsating question in his mind of why all of this was happening aside and to try to solve the more essential problems now. "I think we're supposed to 'kiss and make up' here," he therefore said, "but with being 'tied up' that could be a bit difficult."

"So let's get rid of them."

Don wanted to answer in an annoyed way, though changed his decision and left it with rolling his eyes.

"What?" Charlie asked because all he got from his brother was an impulsive exhalation as an answer.

"Well, not as easy as it sounds. After all, our hands are bent in our backs. And I've noticed that the knot tying you up is remarkably strong and tight and with the time you've taken to tie me up, I can only assume that this knot isn't easy either."

"Oh, come on! These guys have used rope! It'll be a child's play to get rid of it. And anyway, don't you think I'm capable of controlling without them noticing how to tie you up so that the knot would be easy for me to loosen?"

Don stalled. "W-Wait, does that mean you –? How did you do that?"

"Quite simply, with math. Ever heard of Kurt Reidemeister?"

"Er – no, Charlie, I haven't."

Despite Don's scepticism, Charlie held on his ideas. "Well, you should have. Reidemeister moves are an important basis of knot theory."

Don thought he'd misunderstood. "Knot theory? You wanna pull my leg?"

"Maybe later, when we're rid of these bonds… No, wait, not then either. But for your information, knot theory is an area of topology. And with its help I've created a knot that is simple to analyse and so simple to loosen. And you've got no faith in mathematics!"

Don considered it better not to answer directly. "Yeah, but… I couldn't get rid of them until now."

"Of course not. You still need a little help."

"Does that mean you're able to untie me now?"

"Of course. Wait… turn around a bit. Yeah, exactly. I only have to loosen this knot here – so… - and then… wait… voilà!"

Don couldn't believe it. His little brother hadn't even taken a minute to loosen his bonds – and with his hands bound behind his back as well. It would probably take longer the other way round. "I've got to admit, this math staff can be rather useful every now and then," Don admitted, half jokingly, half earnestly, while he was rubbing his wounded wrists. "And now wait… damn, do you happen to have a torch?"

"Do I look as if I have?"

"How am I supposed to know? I'd be glad if I could see you."

"We'll have to wait till tomorrow, then."

That was one thing Don didn't want, though. He knew that it wasn't quite comfortable to sit with your hands bound behind your back. His own wrists and arm muscles were already burning after the few past hours. "No, wait. I'll try without light, then."

Regrettably, it didn't take less than a minute, but more likely an hour before they finally had success.

"Rope," Don repeated when they had barely loosened the bonds trying to transform his face with some effort from a grimace to a contemptuous smile. "How primitive!"

"Well," Charlie reminded him rubbing his numb hands, "they don't need more, do they? I mean, the walls look quite stable, the window up there is barred and too small, and the skylight is three and a half meters above ground as well. I really wouldn't call our position perfect. In fact, they wouldn't even have needed the bonds."

"But they had still tied us!" Don said insistently. "That means there has to be an opportunity to get out of here!"

Charlie first offered a doubtful glance to his brother's silhouette, then to their dark prison. "You aren't serious, Don. They have to have known that sooner or later we'd be able to get our hands free."

"Still, there has to be an chance!"

"So tell me which! Give in, Don."

"Hey, since when is it that you're so pessimistic? There's always a solution! Did you give in with this P-versus-P-stuff at once?"

"NP. Yes. It's unsolvable. As well as our problem here."

Don would have really liked to kick his own ass. "Okay," he admitted. "That was a bad example. You didn't give in at once, though, not until you'd driven us all halfway mad with it! You never give in!"

Charlie wondered. Yeah, in some way, his brother was right. Their position might be looking bad – but what if there was still a solution? They had to find it.

"Okay, so what do you propose?"

"Well… dunno."

Charlie nearly wanted to give up again when Don eventually came up with an idea. "Hey, we could try to reach the skylight. Come on, you stand on my shoulders and try to pry it open."

"You don't really believe –"

"Let's at least try, okay?"

_Why not_, Charlie thought. They had to do something, anything, in order not to crack up completely. "Okay," he said. "Who's beneath, you or I?"

"Me. You're lighter." Don suddenly grinned a bit. "And besides, I'm stronger."

Charlie picked up on his words. "So kneel before me, my big strong brother."

"As his majesty desires," Don finished the jokey banter and went down on his knees.

A bit indecisively, Charlie looked at Don's shoulders. It was evident that it was of no use if he gave him a boost with his hands. Thus, he had to go on the shoulders. However, once up there was nothing for him to hold onto. "Wait," Charlie said, thinking. "Kneel directly before the wall. Then I've got a hold there when you stand up. You only have to go under the skylight, and then I'll be able to get a little hold at the ceiling."

"If you think so," Don retorted and took the order.

_Yes, it should be better this way_, Charlie thought and got on his brothers shoulders.

"You alright?" he questioned.

"Yeah, it's okay," Don reassured him, though his voice sounded a bit compressed. "But you used to be lighter than this."

"Or you stronger," Charlie joked. "But you're right, that's indeed strange. I mean, with all other materials, inertia decreases with time passing, but not so with living creatures. However, if you –"

"Charlie, please no lecture now."

With quite an effort, Don got up on his feet. He was swaying a bit. And on his shoulders Charlie was swaying too. There, now he was touching the ceiling. And already, Don was staggering towards the skylight. But then –

"Whoaaa – ouch!"

"Charlie? You okay?" The weight on Don's shoulders wasn't there anymore. However, in the darkness he couldn't see where it had disappeared to. The only clue was his brother's moaning.

"I'm fine. Quite," Charlie groaned. "Fortunately, there's straw everywhere."

"You sure you're alright?"

"'Course," Charlie replied. Actually, he could barely stand upright and he didn't even want to imagine the extent of the bruise at his hip, but he wasn't seriously hurt, and he didn't want to whine in front of Don.

"Well… so what are we doing now?"

Don was a bit concerned that Charlie was going to give up. He needn't have worried, as Charlie's matter-of-fact answer showed: "We try once again, what else?"

Inside, Don sighed with relief. He had feared his brother would be intimidated by the failure and would give in. "Then mount again, cowboy."

* * *

However, neither of the following tries were crowned with success. "Oh man, don't you have a sense of balance?" Don asked Charlie, pulling him on his feet for the third time.

"Generally yes, though it is unfortunately a bit limited in blackest darkness!" his brother retorted huffishly. "And if you could go a bit more slowly, my sense of balance could get used to being suddenly three meters above ground level!"

"Oh, here it goes! Now it's my fault again if the high-flyer gets back down to earth!"

"Hey, it was your idea that I stand on you!"

"At least I _did have_ an idea and I'm not just bellyaching about everything!"

Charlie didn't have the chance to shout back. A loud rumble made the two brothers wince.

"What was that?" Charlie asked alarmed.

"No idea."

For some seconds, they listened sharply into the darkness until Charlie interrupted the silence. "Do you know how silly we are?"

"Well, with you I know exactly."

"Oh yeah? Just because you –"

"Oh come on, please stop it," Don interrupted him placidly and went on, "I wasn't serious. I'm sorry. We shouldn't argue now."

Charlie nodded, a fact Don admittedly could only assume had happened in the wan moonlight. "So," Don advanced again, half-heartedly trying to recognize any activator for the noise in his dark surroundings, "Why is it that we're so silly?"

"Well, did we call for help even one single time?"

Don wouldn't have thought it was possible, but he had to agree with his little brother. They had indeed behaved as idiots. "Well," he hummed and hawed a bit, "I thought, after we'd shouted like this, that wouldn't be necessary anymore…"

"An argument is by no means a cry for help. Maybe in spite of everything someone becomes aware of what's going on. In any case that's better than breaking your neck or your backbone."

* * *

So they tried their luck. They called for help until they were hoarse, but nobody came to their rescue. "Maybe nobody can hear us," Don grumbled dismally. "Maybe this room is sound-proof and –"

"No, the room isn't sound-proof," Charlie intervened a bit petulantly and quite croakily. "Otherwise we wouldn't have heard the rumble back then. And do you hear this low rustling and hissing? There must be some trees near here."

"Okay. But a neighbour isn't likely to have caused the noise. Otherwise he'd have reacted by now, wouldn't he?"

"Right. So the noise was probably by our gentlemen kidnappers. That means they're probably gone. Because I gather they wouldn't like the noise we've been making here."

"How tremendously sharp-sighted. Though that doesn't help us either."

"It does," Charlie contradicted. "If we manage to open the skylight we at least won't have to deal with them."

"But we can forget it in the dark."

"It's not that big a difference."

"Oh no? That sounded quite different a minute ago. And honestly, I don't really feel like one of us breaking his neck in the next few hours. Besides, I need a break. As I said, you're no featherweight anymore."

Charlie wasn't sure if he should believe what he was hearing. A few minutes ago Don had been dying to try everything in their power! "That means you want to give up? You want them to leave us to rot down here?"

"Yep, that's what I want," Don answered shortly, stretching slightly and moaning on the straw. "At least until tomorrow morning."


	7. Chapter 7

Hi, everyone!  
I'm glad about everyone who lets me know that he/she likes my story. But I'm also very, very glad if someone tells me what I could do better or if he/she wants to help me to improve myself!  
So thanks to Deanna! And to all those who are of the same opinion: I'll try to justify Don's reaction: he's _very_ stressed and we know that he often shows worry/concern by anger. He could see during the drive to their prison that Charlie wasn't seriously hurt and he doesn't want to lose control, so he tries to hide his insecurity behind his fury. I hope you can accept that? I should probably have made it clearer. I'll think of things like that in the future, though, so thanks a lot! (also, Deanna, because you expressed your criticism very gently!)  
And if you don't agree with my reasons – well, I think we'll come upon some Don-protectiveness that might (hopefully) satisfy you in the further course of the story.

7 – CHAPTER SEVEN – 1.320^7

When they awoke, it was already light outside. In spite of their tenuous situation, they had drifted off to sleep quite fast. Exhaustion had overwhelmed them.

Now however, they felt like they had been born anew; as if they had risen from their own ashes like phoenixes although they could have had only a few hours of sleep. They called again for help, but soon noticed that no one could hear them or they were being ignored. And they were both hoping that the latter was not the case and that their kidnappers were elsewhere.

"Lucky for you," Charlie tossed the words towards his brother with a hint of bitterness in his voice.

"Why for me?"

"Because I wanted to get out of here yesterday while the kidnappers were gone, but you wanted to rest. Fortunately, it seems they're still gone, so we've still got a chance."

"Oh man, Charlie! As soon as we escape there'll be no way back; that means we should plan the whole thing very well and not rush anything. And when we want to escape, we should be well rested and in shape! Or do you know how long we'll have to walk to get help? Judging from the silence and from the fact that no one reacts to our calls, we seem to be far from civilization here. And besides, our chances are much better at day than at night – considering that we have no clue where we are. And you said it yourself yesterday that we can't open the skylight as long as it's dark."

Charlie had to admit defeat. "Okay. But if you ask me it's time that we get out of here, despite everything you say."

* * *

So they got on with the task. Charlie slipped his shoes off while Don removed the straw from the wall and from under the skylight. This way, it had to be better. "And this time, walk slowly, okay?" Charlie warned his brother climbing onto his shoulders.

Within a short while, he could, if he stretched, reach the ceiling with the palms of his hands. "How is it?" Don asked, a bit pressed. Although Charlie was shorter than his brother, he wasn't exactly a lightweight. Don suspected that their dad's cooking had something to do with it.

"Couldn't be better."

"So let's go."

Slowly, Don got in motion. After every step, he paused, so that his brother on his shoulders could find his balance. They advanced – at least it felt so for them – much further than in the darkness some hours before.

"Stop!"

Don obeyed. "Can you reach it?" he asked.

"Yes, we're directly beneath it."

"Can you lever it up?"

"We'll soon see," Charlie mumbled, pressing both his palms against the skylight and pushing with all his strength.

Below him, Don noticed how his feet were trembling. His muscles were burning like fire. It wasn't easy having an adult on his shoulders even for a couple of seconds, and now that Charlie was pushing against the ceiling, Don was in trouble. _Hold out_, he said to himself. _Hold out. Just a bit more…_

With a dull sound, Don's knees made contact with the stony ground and Charlie tumbled down.

"What's up?" he asked huffily, barely having gotten up to a sitting position.

"I'm sorry," Don retorted sharply with just a hint of audible sympathy, "but if you even push against the skylight, I just can't bear the weight."

Charlie first brushed the straw off his clothes in order to let off steam a bit before answering, "There's probably a bar in front of it, anyway. It's impossible to exert the necessary pressure to lever it up with the little we have. And anyway, the skylight is solid wood. And I imagine you heard last night how it squealed and screeched. So there's also the friction to take into account."

"Great," Don retorted. "So what do we do now?"

Instead of an answer, Charlie sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. He was thinking hard; imaging possible solutions and just as quickly discarding them. They couldn't get out through the window. It was firstly much too narrow, and on top of that it had bars. However…

"What about the window?"

"What do you mean?" Don asked sceptically. "You wanna crawl through? Maybe I've missed something, but as far as I know, you're no squirrel. And even then you'd probably be too big to get through."

"But that's not what I'm talking about." Charlie was eager and a bit impatient. "But we could at least try if we can see outside, couldn't we? Maybe we can even open it somehow? In any case, we should look at it more properly."

"You just want to sniff a bit of mountain air again," Don grumbled, sighing resignedly. He knew that the following minutes wouldn't do any good to his already battered body.

Charlie noticed Don's slight reluctance, and he at once drew the right conclusion. "Hey, if you want we can swap, no problem."

"Nope, little one, forget it-"

"But yes, come on. Your eye is much more trained than mine in such things, you know, reconnoitre the area, spot any problems..."

"Okay, so gimme a boost."

Charlie's eye, in turn better trained in a mathematical way, flitted along the wall up to the window. "I know I'm no Atlas carrying the world on my shoulders, but at least I can make an effort for my big brother G-man." Don chuckled. Charlie went on his knees, but Don hesitated. "Come on, don't be so difficult."

* * *

Shortly afterwards, Don was standing on Charlie's shoulders. Charlie hoped his backbone wouldn't break, and he felt his legs trembling. He stood, however, until Don finally jumped down after few seconds.

"So?" Charlie asked intently.

The answer was discouraging. "Nothing. No other houses. Just a kind of courtyard where the vehicle is standing. Our hosts are probably back. Maybe they've been just outside, or they've simply ignored our calls. Behind the courtyard, I could only see trees, but really nothing that could help us. And the grill in front of the window is very solid, as well as the glass. The pane is new."

They both looked at the ground as if their gazes were following their mood. The probability hadn't been high that the window would have been able to help them in any kind, but nevertheless, they had fostered just a spark of hope. Now, this spark, too, had extinguished.

"And what do we do now?" Don finally asked. Talking to each other, even if it might seem senseless and not really beneficial to their mood still seemed better to him than having to bear the grave-like silence.

"I don't know," Charlie sighed resignedly and sat on the floor, leaning against the wall and putting his head in his hands. "As long as the kidnappers are here, we can't escape anyway."

"Not escape," Don agreed, "but we can think up an escape route."

Charlie laughed desperately. "Great! And how is this escape route going to take form? How on Earth do you think we're going to get out of here?"

"Hey, don't hang your head!"

That was too much. "Don't hang my head?" Charlie's voice became hysterical. _"Don't hang my head? _So what am I supposed to do, in your opinion? We're imprisoned down here, nobody knows where we are! These guys probably won't let us go in our lifetime! They want us to kick the bucket, Don! Don't you see it? They don't care a damned shit about us!"

Don was silent. His brother had just given a quite accurate description of their situation. And even Don couldn't deny that it wasn't looking bright for them. Nevertheless – no, just because of that! – they couldn't lose their head.

"Now calm down again, Charlie! There'll be a reason why these guys have kidnapped us. Maybe they want to exchange us for someone that the FBI's probably holding."

Again Charlie laughed, and again he didn't sound very delighted. "Is that supposed to calm me down? You don't seriously believe that the FBI will make a deal with them so that we can stay alive!"

No, Don really didn't believe that. And his throat, too, went tight thinking of the consequences that might follow the refusal of the federal agency to cede to the kidnappers' demands.

"What do these guys want, anyway?" Charlie said wearily, vocalizing the question that had been floating through their minds since the appearance of the two kidnappers in their doorway.

Don shook his head. "No idea," he admitted. "Hell, we don't even know who they are."

"We don't?" Charlie asked in a low voice, his eyebrows raised. Don looked at him blankly. So Charlie had already come to the same conclusion as himself. No surprise. They had nearly nothing in common; Don was a federal agent and Charlie a mathematician, the only connection was…

Their mutual work at the FBI.

The mob case.

"Okay," Don admitted, "maybe we know the 'who', but at the moment, that doesn't really help us with the 'why'."

"Maybe ransom?" Charlie proposed, not very convinced about it himself. Nevertheless his stomach churned at the thought that the kidnappers might contact their father and threaten him if he didn't come up with the money.

Don, however, countered the idea at once: "Honestly, I don't think that anyone would kidnap a federal agent if he wanted a ransom. If they'd been out for the money, they simply could have grabbed you alone." All of a sudden, Don was quite glad that the money apparently wasn't what the mobsters wanted.

"So freeing prisoners?"

"Looks like it. Although I'm wondering why they've kidnapped you as well."

Charlie thought. "Maybe to put pressure on the law firm? Then they'd have kidnapped you for the FBI and me for the widow?"

Don still wasn't convinced. "Possible. But would the widow care enough about you to do something to free you?"

Charlie laughed without joy. "After what happened at the meeting? Rather not."

Don was staring at him. "What do you mean?"

"I was too soft. I should have attacked you more. The lawyer said so."

Don could have said many things to that, but since he couldn't decide and in addition didn't know how his brother would react, he remained silent.

"And the FBI?" Charlie got back to the topic. "Would they release prisoners in order to get you free?"

Don looked wordlessly at his brother and made a face. As if the FBI would do such a thing. Don couldn't imagine it by any stretch of the imagination. How would that work, anyway? If the agency caved in this time, releasing potential dangerous criminals back into the public, other agents would be in danger of being kidnapped to help various illegal organisations reach their objectives.

Charlie interpreted his brother's silence correctly. The mobsters seemed to have miscalculated. Their opponents would refuse to be blackmailed. Their hostages were useless. And that meant no good for the two brothers.

* * *

Charlie let his thoughts wander freely, and they immediately took their chance and wandered out of their prison and to all the people outside that were important to him. To his dad, to Larry… and of course to Amita. He would never see any of them. He wouldn't see anyone at all except for his brother.

He'd never told Amita just how much he loved her. Never. He'd never been able to find words strong enough. There were moments when he thought about founding a family with her. He couldn't make up his mind how to talk to her about it, though. The right moment would certainly come, he'd thought. He couldn't believe that he'd been that silly.

Now it was too late. It was over. He wouldn't have the opportunity to ask Amita if she wanted to marry him. And his father would always have to renounce his hope of having grandchildren. Nothing would remain of the family Alan had founded. He would live like Larry had before he'd got to know Megan… lonesome… deserted…

"There has to be a way!" Charlie flared up, standing up from the floor with a jump.

Don jerked slightly due to the sudden movement looking at him resignedly. "And which?"

Charlie didn't answer, but walked up and down impatiently. There had to be an opportunity, something they'd overlooked…

"The skylight!" Charlie suddenly shouted.

Don didn't let himself react to Charlie's sudden activity. "Charlie, we've already tried that. It doesn't work, you've seen that."

"We can't pry the skylight open," Charlie countered eagerly. His cheeks were glowing. "But we could try it the other way round."

Confused, Don looked up at him from his position on the floor. "What do you mean, the other way round? From the outside? Well, that could be a bit difficult."

"Not from the outside. We'll try to pull the skylight towards us by hanging onto it with our weight. There's a chance it'll give way."

New hope flamed up in Don. "You're right! That could work!"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. And now stand up, old guy."

Don followed the request. Then the two brothers were standing next to each other under the skylight, looking up at it.

"And now, how do you intend doing it?"

"Over there in the corner are the ropes. We'll have to undo the knots and tie the bits together. One of us will thread the ring, so that we can reach both ends of it from the floor," Charlie explained his plan and they immediately put it into action.

* * *

"A little further… yeah… stop!"

Don stood. Charlie looped the rope through the ring. Then he took care that the ends hanging down had approximately the same length. Finally, he jumped down.

"Okay. Then let's go," Don gave the start signal. When the Eppes brothers stretched, they could barely reach enough of the rope to wind it around their hands, but it worked. "At three. One – two – _three!"_

They lifted their feet from the ground. The skylight above creaked. But it resisted.

Close to half a minute later Don and Charlie stood with their feet solidly on the ground again, rubbing their hands where the rope had cut in. "It's not working," Don glumly noted.

His brother shook his head with rising desperation. "There has to be a chance, even if it's slim! Didn't you hear it? It sounded like it could give."

"Well. 'Chance' should be seen relatively in this case."

"Stop talking like Larry," Charlie murmured, then immediately continued with the analysis of their situation. "At least the rope didn't tear apart, and also the knots lasted. That means that it's probably strong enough to pull the skylight open."

"If you think so. But as far as I know we can't increase our weight without appliances."

Don had to exert himself to understand Charlie's following words. "Not without appliances, no. But if…" He didn't finish his sentence, but drew with his finger things in the air that could nobody see but him – although his gaze was directed into the void. Don was eager to get to know what idea his little brother was thinking about again, but he didn't want to interrupt him with annoying questions.

"It… well, slim could be the word here," Charlie finally mumbled.

Don considered it safe to talk again. "What? What do you wanna do?"

"We could build a pulley," Charlie answered hesitantly. He still looked somewhat out of it as if he didn't want to return at all from the world of mathematics. In their current surroundings Don couldn't really resent him for it. "We can create an interaction of about one point five kilo Newton with our weight. If we had enough of that rope that's strong enough… or if we could prepare the straw so that it's strong enough… Do you have a pen?"

Surprised by the question, Don started. "What? Uh, no, quite sure I don't. Why?"

Instead of answering Charlie turned towards the floor until after few seconds he had eventually found what he had been looking for. He bent and picked up a little stone that must have crumbled away from the wall. Then he turned towards one side of their prison and began scribbling formulas on the wall.

Don watched him with a hint of admiration and then stretched out on the straw. If he couldn't help Charlie in any way then he didn't want to interrupt him. He dozed a little, but his gnawing hunger prevented a real rest and nearly pushed him into insanity. And he was thirsty, so thirsty... He wanted to distract himself, but the only thing that was suitable for distraction down here were the scratching sounds Charlie was producing at the wall. He concentrated on the scratch sound of stone on stone. Sometimes the sounds stopped for a while. Afterwards, the scribbling went on furiously, or multiple signs were crossed out in annoyance over a large area.

Before the scratching stopped, it always slowed down a bit. Don could hear from the sound how his brother was advancing. And he heard that his brother often crossed something out.

If he could only make it! Gradually, Don wondered how long they could stand it down here. Certainly not for long. Their kidnappers didn't seem to their best interests at heart. Charlie seemed to be right – they didn't give a damn whether their hostages lived or died.

Don thought about his father. It had to be hard on him. First his wife had died, and now both of his sons… _No_, Don ordered himself, _stop it. We're not dead yet. We'll get out of here. Charlie's gonna make it somehow._

Suddenly, Don heard something that intruded. A sound disturbing Charlie's scratch concert. A crackling noise.

And then he smelled it.

Smoke.

_Fire!_


	8. Chapter 8

8 – CHAPTER EIGHT – 1.296^8

Don snapped his eyes open and stood on his feet. Indeed, there, near the wall, a little fire was cracking. It must have ignited when Charlie had once more furiously crossed out his calculations. The sparks created by the fierce rubbing of stone on stone must have leaped over to the straw. And now his little brother was standing at the wall, motionless, staring steadfastly at the flames feeding on the straw.

"Charlie! What the hell are you doing?" Don shouted, hurriedly going for stamping out the fire with his feet.

Fortunately, the flame was still small. Within one minute, the last spark had been extinguished.

After Don had stamped out the fire, he looked at his brother; Charlie hadn't moved an inch. He was still looking into nothing, past his brother, where such a short time ago the flames had been licking. Don was getting uneasy. "Charlie? Hey, you alright?"

Charlie didn't react, though. What the hell was up with him? Was he in shock or something? Don tried again; this time he cautiously shook his brother's shoulder. "Charlie?" His voice suddenly sounded foreign in his ears, and it took him a moment to identify this foreign substance: fear. Then he couldn't stand it anymore; with both of his hands he grabbed Charlie's upper arms tightly. "Charlie, what's the matter with you? Say something!"

And then – finally! – Charlie's eyes cleared and he looked directly in Don's eyes. "I've got an idea."

He spoke calmly as if he hadn't just been shaken and shouted at by his brother. Or ignored a fire.

"An idea?" Don suppressed the feeling of hope. He still wasn't sure if his little brother hadn't really lost his mind. "What idea?"

"Yeah," Charlie nodded slowly, as if he wanted to verify his theory once more in his mad - or not - mind. "Yeah, it should work."

And without further ado, he once again grabbed the stone from the floor and started anew with his calculations his face glowing. His hands trembled with eagerness and he appeared to be deaf to his brother's pestering questions ("_What_ should work? What's your plan, Charlie? What was that just now?").

Don eventually gave up, shook his head uncomprehendingly, and resignedly sat leaning against the side wall on the floor. No, he'd probably never understand how Charlie's mind worked. An idea… what sort of idea might it be? How they should negotiate with their kidnappers? How they could make contact with the outside world? Or maybe even how they could get out of here? Maybe an idea on how they could build that pulley?

Again, Don felt hunger and thirst surging up inside him. How long had it been since he'd last eaten something? No point trying to figure out the number of hours. Anyway, his thirst was by far the more agonizing. Don wondered how long a human being might survive without nourishment and fluidity. He remembered the 'three threes', three minutes without air, three days without water and three weeks without food. In his current situation, however, that wasn't an answer he liked to hear, so he was just about to ask Charlie if he could really rely on these facts and had already opened his mouth when he hastily dismissed it. For one, he had resolved not to interrupt him. And for two, he didn't believe that he was in the right mood to listen to further death statistics.

Don sighed. He hated being unable to do anything. His curiosity was rising with every minute and changing into eagerness. He knew, though, that it'd be useless to pepper Charlie with questions now. He'd only interrupt his train of thinking and that was the last thing he wanted.

* * *

"Okay."

Don jumped up as if he'd waited for this sign his entire life. Charlie seemed to be finished. He, too, seemed excited. "So?" Don asked when Charlie didn't make the least effort to explain it to him. He'd stood back from the wall and was looking at his calculations.

Charlie turned towards him. His cheeks were glowing. "I think I've found a way that'll lead us out of here."

Don thought he couldn't trust his ears. They were really going to get out of here? Without help from the outside? How on Earth was Charlie going to make that?

His question seemed to be written on his face. "Listen, I know that it can work –"

"Wait – it can work?" Don became suspicious. Charlie usually phrased his thoughts rather precisely. And when he presented a result, then there was usually very little doubt. "What do you mean, 'it _can _work'? What are the odds that something will go wrong?"

"I didn't have the time to figure that out, but we haven't really got a choice, anyway."

It was clear to Don that Charlie was trying to wriggle out. However, he considered it better to stop questioning at least for the moment, and to let Charlie explain first. "So, what's your plan? Are we gonna build a pulley?"

"No, you can forget that; it won't work. Now listen: we _have_ got a chance of getting out of here." When he saw Don's skeptic features, he added, "A realistic chance. But for that, you have to trust me."

Trust. He had to trust Charlie.

That was something Don didn't like to hear at all. By no means at all. It wasn't quite easy for him to blindly confide in other people without being able to do something himself. He was more the sort of guy who threw himself into hails of bullets instead of sending others. Usually, it was him the others confided in, the one they could count on. He was always the strong one on whose advice and action the others relied. The possibility that it should now be the other way round filled him with unease. However, Charlie was not any stranger, after all, but his brother. And Charlie certainly would never knowingly do anything that endangered one of them, right? No, he would surely not endanger him, Don. And himself… no, for something like that Charlie was much too… well, Charlie.

"Don?"

Charlie was looking at him, his eyebrows raised, obviously slightly indignant about the fact that Don was taking so long to decide whether he could trust his brother yet or not. A little abashed, Don cleared his throat and struck a light note, featuring a rough contrast to their surroundings. "Yeah, 'course… go ahead!"

Charlie was immediately on fire again. "Okay. Our situation is rather obvious. These guys won't probably let us get out of here alive, and we can't open the skylight either. So we have to arrange for them to open the skylight before we turn into dust down here."

"Sounds great. And how exactly do you wanna make them let us out? I think I missed that part."

Charlie ignored the sarcastic tone. "With fire."

"Fire?" Uh-oh. Suspicion was growing in Don's mind.

"Yes, fire. We'll have to set a blaze so they'll open the skylight and we can subdue them."

Damn! Why the hell did Don always have to be right about his suspicions? "You're tired of living, then", he said tonelessly. "The odds we'll survive that are less than zero."

"You're wrong! For one thing, there are no negative probabilities," – Don rolled his eyes, groaning, but Charlie stuck to his guns –, "and for another, our chances of surviving aren't bad!" he cried. "At least enough so we can't take the risk of not trying! Who knows, maybe it was the helping hand of fate that earlier the straw had caught fire!"

Don couldn't believe what he was hearing. With a total lack of comprehension, he looked at his brother. "Since when do you believe in fate?" he asked confused.

"Since when are you the expert for probabilities here?" Charlie retorted. "What do you think I've been doing for the last thirty minutes? Renewing quantum theory? I've figured out how to set the blaze so that there's the lowest risk possible for us!"

"Yeah, but Charlie!" Don's tone became coaxing as if Charlie was a small child you had to tell not to jump into a snake pit. Or that two and two made four. "If we set a blaze, we'll burn to death! Or choke on it!"

"Have you been listening to me? _I have figured out how to set the blaze!"_

"Yes, that's all well and good, but I still won't throw my life away and hope that your formulas will catch it!"

"It's terms and equations for the most part –"

"I don't give a damn what they are! But you sure as hell will _not _light a fire in here!"

Angrily, they stared into each other's eyes neither wanting to back down. Eventually, it was Charlie who tore his gaze away and turned around. "Well," he said and something conclusive was in his voice. "Well. If you don't want to help me and prefer to rot in this hole…"

"Better than being barbecued!" Don retorted sharply, but truth be told he was unbelievingly relieved that Charlie had given up his stupid idea. There would surely be an alternative.

"It reduces our chances of ever getting out of here again to a minimum," Charlie lectured with acted indifference, "but aside from that, your reaction is completely plausible and correct, to be sure." He returned to the wall in order to cross out his terms with a furious energy.

Don watched him for some seconds and then lay down in the corner onto the straw, closing his eyes to think. It was much too late when he realized what Charlie was doing. For the second time this day he heard a crackling, and slowly, a pungent smell seeped into his nose.

Don jumped up, aghast. Charlie couldn't be–? He hadn't –? Yes. He had.

Over there, yellow-red flames were licking up the wall. Don leapt up and rushed over to stamp them out, but two hands pushed so hard at his chest that he stumbled backwards in surprise.

"Charlie? What are you doing? You wanna kill us both?"

Charlie's eyes were sparkling. "Oh no. _That_'s _your_ plan! _I _wanted to get us out of here!"

"You're crazy," Don murmured, and tried to push past his little brother. It wasn't as easy as in former times, though. Two seconds later, he was lying on the floor, surprised and overwhelmed by Charlie's judo grip that – as Don realized grimly – was adapted from the FBI training course.

But that was too much. Charlie wasn't going to kill them. He jumped up and rushed up to him, and this time he didn't commit the mistake of underestimating his opponent. After less than a minute, Charlie was already lying on the floor, coughing and bruised. Don had had to strike hard, but currently he couldn't feel guilty about it. The main thing was that the two of them didn't burn to death. At lightning speed, Don took up his jacket from the floor having used it as a pillow not more than two minutes ago, and smothered the fortunately still little fire with it.

The flames were soon out, and when Don turned around, Charlie was just struggling up to a sitting position. Then he skidded away from him, towards the wall. To get away from his blows. Just as in the past.

Like lightening, the memory crossed Don's mind. He had been thirteen when Charlie had tried to ride his big brother's bike. Of course he'd been much too small for it. Don, however, had become so furious, always feeling that Charlie wanted to take everything away from him, that he had battered him so hard that he was grounded for two weeks afterwards. And when after a week and a half he had been brooding about his math homework Charlie had hesitantly come into his room and had helped him…

As quickly as it had come, Don managed to push the memory aside. With a trace of a guilty conscience he noticed Charlie's split upper lip and the blood soaking out of his nose that he was trying to stop with his sleeve. He had obviously struck home. He also thought he'd seen Charlie dragging his left leg when he'd withdrawn from him. And Don remembered dimly other blows he'd given him. In his desperation he must have hit him harder, more often, and for a longer time than would have been necessary.

With remorse, however, there was also the need to justify. "What were you thinking?" he asked unable to understand, and only with a slight trace of reproach in his voice. He sat against the wall, next to his brother, who instinctively skidded sideways a bit. And fear wasn't the main reason for his behaviour. For Don was not the only one with a guilty conscience.

However, it was Don who took the initiative. Companionably, he laid his arm around his brother's shoulders, trying to ignore the fact that Charlie's shoulders tensed at the touch.

"You alright?" Don asked and tried to look him in the eye. Charlie lifted his head and looked sideways a little. To the wrong side, though.

"Hey." Don didn't want them to argue now. He didn't want his brother to be mad with him. Who could tell for how many hours they'd stay alive? "Listen, Charlie, I'm sorry. I didn't want –"

"Oh, stop it."

Don stopped short. Charlie was still looking away from him, but he sounded neither furious nor scared.

Eventually, Charlie turned his gaze away from the void in front of the bare wall and stared at his hands instead, knotted into one another. "_I'm_ sorry, okay?" He lifted his head anew, looking at Don. His older brother paused for an instant. What was Charlie apologizing for again? Oh yeah. He'd nearly got them killed. Right.

"How about we forgive each other and we're even?" Don asked uncertainly.

Charlie nodded, and he risked a slight, wry smile, and then gripped his brother's forearm. Don hesitated a second and grabbed Charlie briefly round the back of his neck.


	9. Chapter 9

9 – CHAPTER NINE – 1.276^9

For some minutes, they sat next to each other in harmonious silence, backs and heads leaning against the wall, before Charlie spoke up suddenly, "I just thought it'd be our last chance."

"I can't hold it against you if your hope was slipping a bit." Don's voice sounded no less hollow than his brother's.

"Do _you_ have a plan?"

Don shook his head. Charlie sensed the movement beside him, and wondered how Don was able to do this. He, on his part, had such a headache due to lack of fluids, he couldn't even think about moving unnecessarily.

His voice sounded as calm as in the previous conversation and stayed free of reproach. "So, why didn't you even listen to my plan?"

"Your plan? Was your plan going on after us being burnt to a crisp?"

Charlie gave him a look that was hard to read. "Of course. Who do you think I am?"

"Well… a mathematician," Don hedged. In deference to their just repaired friendship he renounced on describing to his brother his image of a typical mathematician in crisis situations. Instead, he asked further questions: "So what was your plan?"

Charlie looked at him uncertainly. "You gonna listen to me this time? From the beginning till the end?"

"Sure. I'm not aiming to do anything better today, anyway."

Charlie grinned. It did good to grin again and look at a grinning face in return.

"Okay," Charlie began, stood up, and started pacing the room in front of the board – no stop, in front of the _wall_. Don instinctively sat a bit straighter. _Just like school_, was his last thought before he concentrated hard on Charlie's explanation. "First the premises. We're in a closed room –"

"You don't say," the words escaped Don, but Charlie simply shrugged after a brief laugh.

"However, the room isn't sealed off, otherwise we'd have a problem. There are chinks everywhere. Therefore, the air circulates in here. Since I know where the air comes in – namely for the most part from this grill and of course from the window up there – I can figure out how a fire would behave in here. More to the point: I already _have _figured it out. So, we light the blaze here," he pointed to an imaginary line, approximately one yard off from the wall covered with his calculations, "and I hop up and down behind it as a decoy and scream 'Fire, fire!' –"

"You've gone off your head!" Don jumped in when he was sure he had understood Charlie's words properly.

"It's part of my plan."

"But unfortunately your plan doesn't give you much chance of surviving! Why don't _I_ go behind the fire?"

Charlie frowned. "I thought you considered my plan crazy?"

"I do. But someone who has the misfortune of designing such an idiotic plan doesn't have to suffer the consequences on top of that."

Charlie shook his head. "And you insist that _I'm _the one tired of life… It can't be, though, Don. I've got another role for you."

"So we'll swap!"

Charlie was slowly losing patience. "Don, come on! I don't want to hop around behind the fire 'cause I'm some guy who likes it hot, or 'cause I desperately want to be the hero, but because our chances will be much higher this way! What do you think? Which of us can beat up a man more easily, me or you?"

Don was silent, and Charlie took it as his answer. "You see! You need to stand over there in the dark corner behind the skylight opposite this wall." He pointed to the left, to Don's right. "When the kidnappers look inside, they'll see the fire – but they won't be able to douse it, because it's in a dead corner from the skylight. So one of them's going to have to come down. Doing that, he won't think he has to take care of us, for he'll assume that we're both behind the flames. Where else could we be? And he won't notice either, that behind the flames, there's only one of us because there'll be a lot of smoke. And according to my calculations, the smoke will be thick enough. So you're gonna be able to floor him from behind quite easily. Then we're gonna tie him up with the rope, it's – yes, over there in the corner!"

Charlie had become more and more agitated during his explanation and Don had struggled to remain calm. And one of them had to keep cool. For despite Charlie's calculations – they really would have to be very lucky for it to work. The risk was so high…

"And what should we do," Don started thoughtfully, "if two kidnappers come down at once? Or all three of them?"

"Well, then you'll have to fire them up a bit…"

It wasn't until Don laughed that Charlie realized the double meaning in his words, and he too couldn't resist a forced grin. "That wasn't what I meant… But if you manage to knock the first one out, we can use him as a hostage."

"Yeah… _if _I manage…"

"Come on, Don, I know that you can do it!" Charlie cautiously touched his sore upper lip. "I really do."

Don put his head in his hands. He seldom had heard a plan where so many things could go wrong. But did they have another choice? No, probably not, as long as they didn't want to wait for their death. "Okay," Don said. "Let's give these guys a taste of hell."

* * *

They went over the details once more until they were sure that they really had everything clear in their heads. Charlie just wanted prepare his place away from the straw when Don held him back. "Don, what's up?" Charlie asked, and he would have been annoyed if he hadn't actually been exhausted due to his calculations and explanations. "We've finished this – I'm going to go behind the fire in any case. And the danger isn't even nearly as great as you think."

"Yeah, I know that, but wouldn't it be wiser to be sure that there's really someone in the house to put the fire out?"

Caught! Charlie opened his mouth without being able to get out a single word, and flushed slightly. He hadn't thought about this one. An uncomfortable thought crept into his mind: maybe they'd missed another important detail? They had no time, though, to examine their plan from all sides. They had to act before the kidnappers realized that the FBI wouldn't let the prisoners free. For then, their kidnappers would quickly come to the conclusion that their hostages were worthless…

Don's voice brought Charlie back into the here and now. "Who's above?"

"What?"

Don sighed. "You with me again? In case you didn't hear me, I said that we should look through the window to see if the minibus is still there."

"Oh. Yeah. Good idea."

Don grinned. "So up with you." And a few seconds later, Charlie was looking outside across the yard. Across the empty yard.

"It's gone," he said tonelessly after he'd jumped down.

"Oh," was Don's only comment. That wasn't possible. Somebody really hated them. Now they finally had a plan, but they couldn't use it– at least not for the time being… or could they?

Don thought. "It could also be good that it isn't there anymore."

"Yeah?" Charlie remained sceptical.

"Yeah. There are at least three of these guys. Who says that all three are gone?"

"You're right! We have to find out if there's somebody left in the house!"

"That's what I'm saying. So, do you also have a mathematic formula for this one?"

"No, but an idea." And totally unexpectedly, he started to shout at Don. "I can't stand it any longer! I wanna get out of here, don't you get that?"

Don was nonplussed. "Hey, Charlie… man, calm down," he stammered, but Charlie went on screaming his lungs out.

"Help! Get us out of here! Help! Is there nobody who can hear us!"

"Shut up down there!" they heard a harsh voice call out faintly through the skylight.

Charlie grinned and winked at his big brother. And eventually Don got it. "You can't leave us in here for ever!" Charlie shouted once more to keep up his role.

"Keep your trap shut, or you'll get a bullet in your skull!"

Satisfied, Charlie grinned at his brother. "Convinced now?"

"You should have been an actor."

"And who would've figured out our smoke formation formula? You?"

Don returned the well-meaning gibe. "Who knows, maybe I've also got hidden talents? For example in a dogfight?"

"We'll soon see," Charlie forecasted. "Besides, I also believe that you only have to hit once. It sounds as if the guy's alone in the house. Otherwise, the second one would surely have added his two cents."

They removed the straw from the floor between their future flame wall and the stone wall, and took care that Charlie could find a means of escape at both ends. And then it got serious. Charlie set the blaze.

* * *

They waited until the flames were high and the smoke was billowing everywhere. When Charlie finally started coughing, Don thought that it was high time, and he began to shout for his life, "HELP! Help us! Fire!"

Charlie joined in between coughs, "Help! We can't get out of here!"

They heard the kidnapper swear from above. Then the skylight over their heads was opened. "Shit, man, how the hell did you make this mess!" the kidnapper spluttered, aghast.

"Don't ask, help us, quickly! My brother's already unconscious!" Charlie was lying, hoping that his smoke-damaged voice disguised that fact and that his lie would prevent the kidnapper from becoming suspicious if he didn't see or hear anything from Don.

"Damn, I have to let the ladder down for that!" the kidnapper shouted, and it wasn't clear if he was speaking the words to himself, another kidnapper or to his prisoner.

"Then do that, damn it!" This time, Charlie didn't need any acting skills to give his voice a hysterical tone, for the flames were growing hotter and the smoke thicker.

The jerk let the ladder fall into the dungeon with a loud rattle. With a fire extinguisher in his hand, he hurried down the treads.

"Now come on, man!" Charlie shouted, half to distract him, half because he really meant it. The man had barely reached the last tread when Don's fist, hard as iron, hit him at his temple, making him go down with a short groan.

"'Bout time," Charlie croaked and hurried to get away from the flames. While Don extinguished the fire, Charlie trudged towards their former tormentor, coughing and gasping, and tied him with the rope. They were ready at the same instant, and Don immediately leant down to Charlie. "Are you alright?"

"Never felt better," Charlie croaked. "I could really do with a bit of water, though."

"Thank God he brought a fire extinguisher. Otherwise it would probably have been a bit difficult for us to douse the fire," Don briefly reviewed their adventure.

"Then we'd have taken the guy upstairs and left the room to its own devices," Charlie replied hoarsely. "Wouldn't have mattered then if it'd burnt down to the ground."

"When you're right… you're right," Don grinned. He reached out for Charlie's hand who grabbed it thankfully and let himself be lifted by Don.

They left their kidnapper lying on the floor, climbed upstairs and pulled the ladder up behind them. They left the skylight open in case the fire wasn't completely out. In the kitchen, they first bowed over the sink and quenched their longing for water. It wasn't until now that they realized just how hungry they were. When was the last time they'd eaten anything, anyway? To start, however, some slices of dry bread were totally enough for them. After all, there were more important things to do now.

* * *

"Don't they have a telephone here or what?" Charlie slammed shut the old cupboards in the kitchen, having searched through the old house.

"Doesn't seem so," Don answered morosely.

All they'd found were some papers relating to the crimes, some tins of stew, bread and a whole stockpile of weapons – hand grenades, heavy machine guns and smaller handguns. This seemed to be some kind of stash. And also a place where they brought prisoners in to be left to die.

"We have to inform the FBI as soon as possible," Don pushed.

"And how, if I may ask? This guy has no cell phone, the minibus must have been driven away by his colleagues, and there's also no other house in the area around us!"

"Then we'll have to walk as far as we'll find one," Don decided firmly. "You always complain that you've never got the time for hiking, don't you?"

Charlie laughed joylessly. That was not the way he had imagined his hiking trip.

"And what are we going to do with this guy here?" he wanted to know, pointing at the tied mobster in their former dungeon.

"We leave him here. It's not that he can go away, and his confederates will also come soon."

"And if not?"

"Then it's his problem. Maybe we'll send someone later to look if he's still alive. Now come on, we should get away from here as soon as possible, before the others come back."

They took some further big gulps from the faucet. Then Don grabbed the papers and Charlie the loaf of bread, and they left the cabin.


	10. Chapter 10

10 – CHAPTER TEN – 1.258^10

They were in the mountains. Around of them were woods with two narrow tracks leading to the cabin from different directions. "Which direction?" Don asked.

"This way," Charlie answered, on the spur of the moment, pointing to their right. Don walked ahead along the slightly downward sloping track.

"Have you ever heard of the right-hand rule?" Charlie asked his brother while catching up to him again. He had, for some reason, stopped at the crosstracks.

"No, Charlie, I haven't. And to be honest, I'm not very interested in it at the moment."

"But it could be quite interesting and important…"

"Charlie, I'm really not in the right mood for some math gimmicks. If you want you can tell me about it when we've found a telephone."

For years Charlie had been fed up with his brother considering him a pain in the ass, so he remained silent until some minutes later the track branched another time, leaving them with three possibilities.

"Where now?" Don asked again.

Charlie silently pointed to the right with his thumb. "Again?" Don asked, frowning. "Listen, I don't want to walk in circles."

"But you want to get out of here," Charlie lectured while putting two little sticks inconspicuously in the ground with Don's confused gaze and one risen eye-brow on him. "So you'd better trust me, if you don't want to know anything about the right-hand rule or this other rule explained by Trémaux and Tarry." With that, he strode away from him.

Annoyed, Don moaned, quickly following his brother as he disappeared down the right path. When he'd caught up with him, he asked, half against his better knowledge, "So tell me about this right-hand stuff."

"If you don't want to, I don't have to."

"Come on, don't make such a song and dance out of it, tell me! And what was this thing about the twigs on the ground?"

"Never heard of Trémaux and Tarry, right?" Charlie asked pointedly.

"Er – no, Completely unknown to me."

"You wouldn't be saying that if you'd listened to me earlier," Charlie teased, a little offended.

Don inhaled deeply, rolling his eyes. "Okay. I'm sorry. I was a huge idiot and a complete jerk. And since I'm completely lost without you anyway, I'm begging you on my knees to initiate me into the marvellous secrets of your mathematics."

"I'm not seeing you on your knees," Charlie answered, acting huffy although he was already appeased. Don hadn't meant it meanly, after all. "Let it be," he therefore added, grinning broadly as he saw Don's indignant gaze, and started his explanation. "Now listen. Imagine we're in a maze here."

"Not very difficult."

"You see. Assuming now that the cabin had been our destination in the middle of the maze and that we're now trying to get out, there are different methods we could use to find our way. Of course, we could easily give in to our whims and take the path that looks most inviting to us –"

"And what would be wrong with that?"

"Nothing. You're welcome to try. But personally, I'd like to be home before Christmas."

"Okay, I got it. So what are we supposed to do? Mark our path, as you did earlier?"

Charlie hesitated. "Yeeaahh… But that's only half of it. Let me start from the beginning. So: One possibility in a maze is to touch the hedge with your right hand permanently. Of course you can also do it with your left hand as long as you stick to your method. However, this method only works if the destination is connected with the outer hedge. And the longer I think about it, the more I doubt that we can be sure that this is the case in our situation. Therefore we should change our method later, otherwise we'll end up back at the cabin."

"Are you telling me that you're leading us back to the mobsters' hiding place right now?"

"Of course not… at least, not now. I just said we should change our method later."

"And choose the hit or miss way?"

"No way. We'll apply Tremaux's algorithm, a method created by Gaston Tarry and Charles Pierre Trémaux."

"Another Charlie," Don murmured.

"Got a problem with that?" Charlie asked belligerently.

"Dunno. I don't even know what these guys are about."

Charlie sighed, a bit exaggeratedly and denied himself a grin before enlightening his brother. "Generally, it's very simple. Every path we enter we mark with a stick in the ground. If there's already a stick, we add a second one. However, if there are already two, we go another way."

"And which one?"

"The one with the smallest amount of sticks, that means a path with only one or without any sticks at all."

"Sounds quite logical to me. After all, who chooses a way he's already gone twice? You don't have to be a mathematician to work that out."

"But that's not quite everything. Every time you leave a path, you also leave a stick at its end. In this way, you immediately block out dead ends, because you must never go a path with two sticks."

"Okay," Don said, a bit hesitantly. He thought he'd got the system, but still decided to let Charlie choose their paths. "So let's see if you can prove that your algorithms work. Ahead of us, the way branches again."

"Okay, then we'll turn left," Charlie decided, making his marks. "It's about time we changed methods."

In silence, they continued walking, looking behind them every now and then, always with the indefinite, but unpleasant feeling of being watched and followed. What if the mobsters, against all probability, had found their tracks somehow? Would they suddenly be assaulted from behind…? However, it appeared that there wasn't another soul for miles.

The track soon narrowed further until it was only a path not even wide enough for a single car.

"Charlie…," Don began cautiously. "Hadn't we better go back and try the other way?"

"Of course. If you want to lose your way completely, never mind. If you apply such an algorithm, you have to be consistent."

"I am. I see a dead end, so consequently I turn on my heels."

"But this isn't a dead end. Maybe the way will broaden again. Besides, it's less dangerous for us to walk paths where no cars can go and therefore the danger of meeting the mobsters is less."

Don gave in. He already knew this, but somehow with Charlie lecturing him it was as if he'd taken charge. There was no use arguing with Charlie when he was in 'genius, mathematician professor mode'.

"Haven't we been here before?" Don asked an hour later, interrupting their conversation. Charlie looked at the ground searchingly.

"We have," he finally admitted. "OK, here we'd gone straight ahead. Which direction now?"

With a shrug, Don pointed to the left.

Charlie made his signs. "How much time, do you think, it'll take to find somebody who can help us?"

"I don't know. The area seems to be huge. I think we're somewhere in the Angeles National Forest. And as you know, up here in the mountains and in a national park to boot, there aren't really many inhabitants. And the hiking season where tourists walk over the paths here in masses is also over."

Charlie nodded, although he assumed with a gaze at the hiking paths that these masses were rather moderate. "Summer is past," he affirmed. "So it could be quite cold tonight."

Through the leaves and twigs high above their heads, they glanced anxiously at the sky that was gradually growing darker. They wouldn't be able to orient themselves for long here, in the woods. "We ought to find a place where we can stay over night as soon as possible," Don suggested. Charlie nodded silently.

For some time, they walked beside each other in silence again. If it hadn't been for their precarious situation, they probably would have been enjoying their walk and appreciating nature's wonders around them. The trees were huge, forming a green roof high above their heads where, in their crowns, different birds twittered happily. The air was so clean and fresh they could barely breathe their fill. Everything around them was green and fresh and alive. They didn't feel fresh themselves, but after their escape, they certainly felt very much alive.

"Do you remember the hiking trip dad took us with when we were children?" Don asked after some minutes.

Charlie smiled at the memory. "Sure. That one canyon was really something."

"Uh-huh," Don agreed. "And do you remember, one night, when you screamed because you thought there was a wild pig outside your tent?"

"Hey, it _was _a pig!" Charlie defended himself. He flushed just a little bit. Although he'd only been seven at the time, the whole thing was still a little bit embarrassing for him. "Kind of."

"Yeah, it could've been a filthy pig… but in my memory it more resembled a racoon," Don corrected him.

Charlie shrugged. "All animals are equal, you know. I just didn't want to deprive you of experiencing one of nature's marvels. That's the only reason why I woke you up. And you didn't even bother to thank me."

Don laughed, and Charlie grinned broadly. This hiking trip wasn't that bad, after all.

* * *

Around evening, they found a rocky spur that promised them some protection. "Let's hope that the wild animals will stay at home tonight," Don murmured while they tried to get as comfortable as possible.

"Yeah, for example the racoons…"

Don grinned.

"And besides, we should also hope that we won't be woken up by some mobsters," Charlie added sarcastically.

Very soon, though, they had pushed their worries aside. The strains of the day were taking their toll, and after few minutes they fell asleep, closely nestled up one against the other to protect them against the cold.

When Don awoke, he didn't know immediately what had awakened him. It couldn't be dawn for everywhere around him, it was still completely dark. At the same time he realised what had woken him as he became aware of the quiet patter rain was making on the forest ground.

Gently, he shook his brother.

"Charlie, wake up."

Don would never have dreamt that his voice could sound so quiet and peaceful. Charlie moaned quietly in his sleep, but then opened his eyes, which, however, was of little use due to the light conditions. "What's up?" he asked sleepily.

"It's raining."

"Oh… Uh, so?"

"We should make use of the opportunity and drink something. Who knows when we'll get the chance again."

"If you say so," Charlie mumbled, still half asleep. He went to stand up, when Don held him back gently with one arm.

"What's up?" he asked, searching through the dark for Don's face, his big eyes at half mast. However, he could only make out a silhouette and hear his brother's calm voice.

"If you go out into the rain now, you'll have pneumonia within a few hours. Luckily we found somewhere that's above the ground."

Don fumbled around a bit in the darkness and Charlie heard him pulling at some plants. "Here," Don finally said, offering him a big leaf. "With that you can collect the rain without getting wet."

They held their leaves in front of them so that they protruded from under the rocky spur, listening to the rain pattering down. Then they let the water glide down their dried up throats. The liquid tasted wonderful as they'd forgotten how refreshing fluids could be.

"The rain's washing away our tracks," Charlie mused while they were sitting harmoniously shoulder to shoulder.

"Mh-hm. Nothing better could have happened to us," Don agreed.

"At least one thing that's working in our favour out here."

"Don't worry," Don said calmly. He still couldn't get over the peaceful tone in his voice. It had to be the atmosphere – the quiet night in the woods, protected under a rock, the constant patter of the rain, his brother at his side… "We'll be home in a couple of hours. Certainly."

He sensed his brother nod beside him. He was feeling that Charlie wanted to add something, but it took some moments until he verbalized it. "I hope dad's OK."

Don smiled slightly. He'd been thinking the same thing at the same moment. It was nice to eventually have for once the same thoughts as his genius little brother. At this moment in time, they were totally equal. It didn't matter that Don was a federal agent, it didn't matter that Charlie was a professor, it didn't matter that they had their arguments; there was no difference between them, they were one.

"Yeah, I hope so, too," Don confessed, but both he and Charlie doubted that their hope was close to reality. Alan had been assaulted a short time ago and his sons forcibly removed from his presence. He had no clue as to how they were. He sure as hell wasn't going to be in high spirits.

After a while, the rain stopped again. "We should try sleeping for another couple of hours," Don said. "The ground's probably slippery and with the darkness we can't see enough to go on, anyway."

This time, however, sleep didn't come easily. They lay awake for long hours, freezing and thinking. Eventually, however, they fell asleep as they took comfort that at least they weren't in the situation alone.

When the birds' chorus awoke them the second time they felt as if they hadn't slept at all. Nevertheless, groaning slightly, they crawled out from under the rock and continued on their way.

"Fortunately, our markers are still there," Charlie said when they reached the next branch-off, noticing a little stick to their right.

"Yeah," Don responded, "but still I'd prefer not having been here before. I just wonder how the tourists who've never heard about… Charles… Terry or something like that manage not to get lost."

"Well…", Charlie began, obviously not noticing that Don's utterance hadn't been a real question. Don let him talk. "Some of them have got a tour guide, some have a map of trails and a compass. And some of them just have plenty of time. And they keep to the big tracks." Charlie sighed. "And they're able to call mountain rescue with their cell phone when they get lost."

"Right. Just now I really wouldn't have anything against… how does Larry call them again?"

"Electronic dog leashes," Charlie answered promptly, laughing briefly. "I'm going to tell him a thing or two when I set eyes on him again." _If__ I set eyes on him again_, Charlie thought to himself, grimacing slightly.

"That's what I keep telling you, he's a bit manic," Don joked. "I still can't see what Megan – woah!"

Don finished his sentence with an astonished yell. He had good reason. His left foot came down on some rain-wet leaves and slipped across the muddy ground. He tried desperately to keep balance as he tipped over the edge of the path.

"Don!" Charlie shouted aghastly. He tried to grab his hand, but he couldn't reach him anymore. Don lost his balance and fell down the slope next to the path.

* * *

Charlie dived for the verge and saw his big brother stretched out motionless on the ground.

"Don? Don!"

Hastily, Charlie skidded down the slope. "Don, you alright?" He tumbled over roots until he was finally kneeling next to his brother. Don moaned. "Hell, what happened?" Charlie asked anxiously.

"I slipped. That's all," Don appeased him through clenched teeth. "I'm fine. Just my ankle."

Indecisively and on the verge of a panic attack, Charlie looked down at the apparently hurt foot then glanced up the slope, finally looking in his brother's pale and tense face. "Damn it," he murmured, letting his gaze jump aimlessly from one point to another. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

"Now calm down, Charlie!" Don tried to appease him. "It's not as bad as all that."

Charlie laughed slightly hysterically. "No? Can you even walk?"

Don shrugged. "Dunno. It's worth trying. Help me a bit." He first pulled himself to a sitting position with his brother's help. Then he laid his arms around the younger man's shoulders, and Charlie pulled him to stand upright, albeit a bit awkwardly.

"You okay?" Charlie asked anxiously.

His face contorting with pain, Don cautiously tried to put weight on his foot. He moaned quietly. He'd rather have roared. Slowly and cautiously, he let his brother help him back down into a sitting position. Feverishly, he wondered what they were going to do now. Then he shook his head. "Forget it. I'll only hold you back. Listen, you have to go on alone. It can't be far from here until you'll finally find help."

Charlie protested, "I can't leave you alone here!"

"You have to!" Don implored him, half knowing better. He didn't like the idea of his brother going off alone. But did they have an alternative? "If I came with you, we'd lose too much time."

Charlie shook his head. "It'd be the most idiotic thing we could do to separate just now." He thought briefly. "Wait a sec," he then ordered his brother, disappearing between the trees.

Don was looking after him, his neck craning. "I didn't have better plans for today, anyway!" he called after him, but Charlie didn't seem to hear him. "Charlie?" Don gave up. His brother would surely come back – eventually.

* * *

Again moaning slightly, Don cautiously took off his shoe. It was hurting like hell. He tried to ignore the twinge, but he didn't manage. Eventually, he surveyed his ankle. It was heavily swollen and had already turned a little blue. "You really did another fine job here," Don mumbled to himself. He prodded the swollen part cautiously and cried out quietly. After this first attempt he let it be.

Instead, he looked around. All of a sudden, the forest seemed much more menacing to him than half an hour ago. What could he do if some animal attacked him? He'd be wide open, without protection; he even wasn't able to run away! He slowly became aware of the numerous little creepy-crawlies that kept themselves hidden here in the woods. A bit queasily, Don wondered what other animals could be lurking amongst the trees. Wolves? Bears? What would he do if such a beast came close to him? How was he supposed to protect his brother and himself with this damned ankle? Above all when Charlie had disappeared?

Suddenly, a memory crossed Don's mind. It had been his thirteenth birthday. His father had taken him on a camping trip, and of course Charlie had been with them again. Don had been given the job of keeping an eye on him. On his birthday, no less! Baby sitter for his little, annoying brother! Obviously Don hadn't felt like doing so, and of course Charlie had promptly disappeared. They had searched for him everywhere, but had found him nowhere until finally the police had picked him up miles away from their camp. Not until something over a year ago they had cleared up what had actually happened back then. Don, though, had sworn that day to always take care of Charlie. He knew he just wouldn't cope if something happened to his brother because he hadn't protected him.

He wished Charlie were here. What had he said; it'd be idiotic to separate now?

So why had he left him alone?


	11. Chapter 11

11 – CHAPTER ELEVEN – 1.243^11

"Don?"

Don startled. Somebody had called his name and it wasn't hard to recognize the voice. "I'm here!" he called as an answer.

"Where?"

"Here!"

Charlie followed the calls and had soon discovered his brother again. Don breathed a sigh of relief when he caught a glance of his brother through the trees and shrubs.

"Where've you been?" he asked him with a trace of anger that overrode his previous worry.

"Getting this stuff." Charlie pointed at a hodgepodge of parts of various plants, two short, even sticks, some climbing plants and a strange plantlet with purple blooms.

"What's all this?" Don eyed Charlie's harvest critically.

"Your bandage. The purple stuff is comfrey, I was certain I'd seen it earlier, just after the junction before the latest one. Comfrey helps with sprains. Actually, you're supposed to boil it in water and let it steep for a while, but I guess it'll be effective all the same." Don stared at Charlie, his eyes huge, but his brother didn't let it distract him. "Just hold your foot still. Like that." And then Charlie began to lay the comfrey carefully around Don's ankle. He laid some leaves around it as a pad, stabilized the foot with the two sticks and fixed everything with the climbing plants. In no time at all, the makeshift bandage was done.

"Okay… now try to put some weight on the foot… but only very slightly!" Charlie admonished him.

Cautiously, Don followed the order. The ankle was painful and felt weak, but it was by far less than a few minutes previously.

"How come you can do such things?" Don asked his little brother in complete bewilderment.

"I did an advanced First-Aid-course, once."

"And when, if I may ask?" Don couldn't remember a bit of it.

"Shortly before mom became ill," Charlie explained, and all of a sudden Don could understand his ignorance of Charlie's knowledge. Back then, their relationship had been tense, putting it mildly – if you could even call it a relationship.

"And there you learn these things?" he asked so that he didn't have to think of the bad memories of that difficult time in their lives.

"We all thought it was quite farfetched then, to talk about herbal medicine, but I'm not going to deny that it was useful," Charlie responded with a trace of his old, easygoing smile. Don looked at him, looked into the familiar face, and suddenly the world was good again. What could happen to him, after all, as long as they were together? Everything was all right! Despite all their tribulations, the whole situation still had something good about it: the strong connection between his brother and him was fixed again and as strong as ever before.

"What's up?" Charlie wanted to know confused, noticing that Don was silently staring at him.

"Please remind me that I have something to do in the bureau break room when we're back."

"Oooookaaaay," Charlie answered slowly, waiting for an explanation. It failed to appear. Instead, Don tried to come onto his feet again, and Charlie realized that just now his priority wasn't in the satisfaction of his curiosity, but in the supply of a supporting hold for his brother.

On all fours (or at least on three of them) Don climbed up the hill with Charlie's help. Charlie supported him up to the summit. Indeed, they certainly didn't move as quickly as before Don's crash, but he also didn't expect to be able to be on his feet with this ankle.

Now, the track was leading them steadily downwards. They reached three further crossings they'd never seen before. And then – finally! – their eyes discovered what they would have not considered possible anymore – a house!

* * *

Granted, it was rather a cabin, but at least this building was bigger than their former prison.

When they exited the woods they could hardly believe their luck. Not only did they see this one house enthroned above a valley like the press cabin of a baseball pitch, but in the valley itself, there were many other little houses. They'd actually found a real little village up here in the mountains!

Devoutly, they stood for a moment, savoring the pleasure of looking down to the piece of civilization they'd discovered.

"We've made it!" Charlie cheered, looking at his brother, beaming with joy. "We've really made it!"

"I never doubted your math, buddy," Don answered, grinning broadly.

* * *

"FBI, special agent David Sinclair," David answered his cell.

"Hey, David. You're on call?" For some seconds, David wasn't able to move. "Hey David, you still there?"

"DON!" David finally shouted, and on the other side of the connection, the man being screamed at held the receiver half a metre away from his badly affected ear. "Is it really you?"

"Of course, who else? The governor or what?"

"It's Don!" staring at the phone David called towards the men and women around him forgetting for a second that he'd called out his SAC's name like some lovesick teenager shouting out to her favorite pop star. "Where are you? What about Charlie?" David asked more calmly.

"Standing next to me."

David couldn't speak. They were alive, both of them. For some instants he didn't know what to say; then all his questions wanted to tumble out of his mouth at the same time. "Where are you? Are you hurt? How are you? Do you need an ambulance?"

"Calm down, David," Don soothed him, grinning. "We're fine. We're in a little house whose gentle owner kindly let us use his telephone, in a village called –"

He hesitated and looked questioningly at the homeowner who said eagerly, "Little Ottery."

"Little Ottery," Don repeated into the receiver. "That's in the mountains. We were in a cabin –"

"We know," David interrupted him. "That's where we are just now. We've searched the whole area in a five-mile perimeter around for you, but didn't find you. To be honest, we didn't find anyone up here." Suddenly, David grinned; he just couldn't help it. "Let me guess, we can send back the chopper we ordered before it even gets here, right?"

"You've hit the mark there," Don confirmed, and went on jokingly, "Whoa, a chopper. That sounds as if it was becoming a real S&R operation. Charlie and I should feel so honoured!"

"Yeah, you should," David laughed into the receiver, then became serious again. "We'll pick you up right away while the other agents stay here to save evidence, okay? Shouldn't take us long. We'd passed the village on the way up here about fifty or so minutes ago."

"Okay, we'll wait in the main street above this little valley. Oh and, David?"

"Yes?"

"Er… How's our dad?"

David paused. "He's taking it quite well, I think. Worried, of course."

"He wasn't hurt when they assaulted us?"

"No, not badly at least."

Don sighed in relief. "Okay… well, could you maybe inform him that we've found each other and that we're fine?"

"'Course, gonna do it. See you, Don! And say hello to Charlie for me!" With that, the conversation was finished.

* * *

Fifty-five minutes after their phone call, David and Colby saw two figures sitting in the evening sun on the street in front of a little, white house. Charlie helped Don stand as they saw the vehicle and recognised the two agents in it.

"There they are!" David called from the passenger's seat, laughing hilariously. "Heavens, they really need a shower badly."

Colby, grinning broadly as well, stopped the car and they both got out.

"You two know how to give us guys a hard time!" Colby scolded jokingly while they clasped each other's shoulders. Then the two federal agents looked at the brothers with slightly worried features.

"Is really everything alright with you?" David inquired, his gaze wandering from Charlie's split upper lip, over the unsightly bruise at his temple and then down to the strange tangle around Don's foot.

"Someone should look after Don's ankle," Charlie answered before Don could even open his mouth. "Seems to be sprained."

"Come on, don't cause undue alarm," Don objected, but his protest was swept away.

While the four of them were driving to the hospital, they gave each other their latest news.

"We've informed Alan. You can imagine that he's quite relieved. Do you want to call him and tell him that we're on our way to the hospital?" Colby offered, who had again taken the seat behind the wheel.

Don, on the passenger's seat, answered immediately, "No way. Not until he can see for himself that we won't be dropping dead in the next instant."

Despite their recent escape from danger, this comment forced a smile on all of their faces. David however thought that Don wasn't that wrong about it. When he'd informed Alan that they'd found his sons, it had sounded on the phone as if Alan was almost having a heart attack.

"How is he, actually?" Charlie wanted to know, a bit tentatively.

"I think he coped fairly well with it," David appeased them. His and Colby's irritation due to Charlie's behaviour a few days before was already completely forgotten. "I figure as soon as he sees that you're relatively well, he'll also be in top form."

The reassuring smile didn't reach David's eyes. The trauma that Don and Charlie's father had gone through during the last few days had been very evident during the phone call he'd received just after the assault.

"_FBI, you're talking to Special Agent David Sinclair."_

"_This is Alan… Eppes."_

"_Oh, good evening, Alan. Don's not here. He just wanted to stop by at Charlie's. Indeed, he'd have to…"_

_David looked at his watch, though was interrupted. "Yes, he was here. That's the reason. It's this… he… we… we've been assaulted."_

"_Assaulted? What do you mean?"_

_Alan swallowed. "Don and Charlie, they… they're not here anymore."_

_David hesitated. He'd knitted his brows. Now he was concentrating he could hear the slight tremble in Alan's voice. "What do you mean?"_

"_These guys knocked me down. And when I awoke, they were both gone. They are… I believe they've been kidnapped."_

_David couldn't believe the story he was listening to. "Did I understand you properly, Alan? Don and Charlie have been kidnapped?" he verified._

"_Yes."_

_What 'yes'? How 'yes'?_

_David didn't know what to do. "By whom?" he finally asked._

"_I don't know who. These men just knocked at the door and asked for the two of them and then they suddenly drew their weapons… I couldn't protect them! I just… got them completely trapped. If something… if they…"_

"_Please calm down, Alan," David talked at him insistently, his voice strangely hollow while his mind was working fast. Wasn't there some kind of codex for such cases? "We'll do anything that's within our strength to get them back unharmed." Hopefully that will be enough, David thought silently and swallowed. "We're on our way. Do you need an ambulance?" _

"_No, no. I'm all right. Just get here quick as you can."_

"Okay… but now do tell," Don demanded, "you were at the cabin?"

A short moment of hesitation, then David was back in the present. "Yes," he reported. "We caught one of the mobsters, or better the LAPD caught him. A guy called Victor Budanov. They'd arrested him because of drug dealings and had found out that he seemed to have something to do with the Russian Mob. Appears that he was just some kind of muscle, though he did know about the cabin you were probably held in. He must've spilled the beans to the LAPD somehow. We had to push him a bit, but eventually he told us everything. However, we couldn't prove anything else than this drug issue, and so he was released out on bail. Well, anyway, we drove to the cabin, but then realised that it was empty. We first thought Budanov had conned us, but finally we found the dungeon in the cellar. No trace of you though. Therefore, we started the search operation. That was yesterday in the evening."

"You really could have stayed put for a few more hours," Colby uttered dryly. The conversation with Alan Eppes after they'd found the cabin was still on his mind.

"_Colby?" Alan confirmed as soon as he'd picked up the receiver after the first ring._

"_Yes, Mr. Eppes." Colby had promised Alan to keep him updated. He soon had regretted this decision for they were advancing much too slowly. Though now they'd at least a hint that the two brothers, in spite of everything, were still alive._

"_Have you found them?"_

_Alan had asked this question every time they'd called him. And every time until now he'd received the same answer. _

"_No, not yet, Alan, I'm sorry." Colby could hear Alan sigh at the other end, and went on. "But we've probably found the room they'd been held in. They're not there anymore, but we assume that they'd been able to escape. On the wall, we found signs and formulas that are very likely to be by Charlie. We're not quite sure what they mean, but maybe it's to do with the fire that had taken place in the room. It looks as if the fire had been deliberately set."_

_Alan was silent, and Colby wondered what to do. He could imagine Alan standing at the dark window, staring at the rain outside, wondering where his sons were. Maybe he should have given him the information personally? But it was nearly three hours to Pasadena, and he'd wanted to stay with David and the other agents, at the cabin. Just in case._

"_There was a fire in the room they'd been held in?"_

_Colby heard Alan's voice tremble, and he answered quickly: "Yes, but we're pretty sure they got out in time. Otherwise we would have found their… otherwise we would have already found them."_

_Respect for Alan wasn't the only reason for Colby's change in his choice of words. For he knew his gag reflex would engage as soon as he verbalized the word 'bodies' while seeing inevitably Don's and Charlie's dead figures in his mind's eye._

"Up there, turn left, Colby," David suddenly uttered from the backseat, and the steering wheel was pulled around as Colby was pulled out of his thoughts.

Don laughed briefly. When they all looked at him in surprise, he asked his two team members, though his words were more directed towards Charlie, "You're sure you don't want to put some little sticks in the ground at the crossroads?"

Colby glanced over his shoulder at David, one of his eyebrows raised, but Charlie was grinning. "It also works with road signs."

"You sure you're okay?" Colby pressed, only half jokingly.

"Colby," Don admonished him playfully, sounding like a schoolmaster from the nineteenth century. "Now you're disappointing me. You've really never heard of… Charles Terry and Pierre Trémaux before?"

"Uh – no. You, David?"

"I don't think they're on my Christmas card list."

"I don't think they're on anyone's list," Charlie uttered. "For I've never heard of _those _two guys, either. I've only heard of Charles Pierre Trémaux and Gaston Tarry."

Don's grin broadened. He leaned back in his seat, laid his head backwards, and closed his eyes. If it wasn't for the worry for their father, they could drive like this forever as far as he was concerned. "Why, I'm glad I'm not one of your students," he said to his brother good-naturedly. "You're worse than my old class teacher."

Charlie was grinning, too, and he also leaned back in his seat. They were going home.

0 – 0 – 0

When the two Americans with Russian origin had got back to the cabin, they hadn't at first sensed something was wrong. It hadn't taken them long, though, until they'd found their confederate in the dungeon.

Reports had been exchanged and eventually brought to their boss. Even if they were hardened criminals, their boss' fury was something to be avoided at all costs, even if they didn't let it show.

In a complete hurry, the base had been cleared, and a few hours later, they – from a secure hiding-place – had seen patrol cars driving into the mountains. That had been close. Maybe they had underestimated the opponent, had taken on an agency that was too well organized?

It was of no use; the cornerstone had been laid, the sides clearly demarcated, and the game had begun. And they would play until they reached their aim. And after this first reversal, they would play more mercilessly than ever.


	12. Chapter 12

12 – CHAPTER TWELVE – 1.230^12

About two hours later, they arrived at Huntington Memorial Hospital. Since Don and Charlie hadn't seemed to be in the need of immediate medical treatment, they'd decided to go to the hospital nearest the Craftsman in case they had to stay over night. The doctors agreed that as long as the two brothers rested sufficiently and ingested enough liquids it wouldn't be necessary. And since they didn't want anything else except to get home (and not only in order to appease their father), they readily swore to do that.

When they approached the Craftsman they weren't surprised a bit when they saw a light on, although it was nearly midnight. They were equally unsurprised when the door was torn open as soon as the vehicle crunched on the gravel in the driveway; after all, Colby had phoned their father from the hospital to let him know they were on their way home. They were a bit more surprised by the presence of not only Alan, but also Larry and Amita.

Alan, followed by the other two, had already rounded the vehicle when Don and Charlie had just finished their struggle with the seat belts, and opened the doors for them. "Oh my God, my boys, my boys!" he called, as he'd been doing since he'd left the house. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"We're fine, dad," Don reassured him quietly while they all got out and the three Eppes hugged tightly. Don noticed the tears on Alan's cheeks, and hastened to reassure him, "It's alright, Dad. Nobody's been harmed."

Both brothers were heartened to see their father seemingly no worse for wear after his brush with the mobsters. Without realizing it, they relaxed their shoulders and let out matching relieved sighs.

Alan nodded, swallowing, then turned towards his youngest to hear the same from him.

"We're alright," Charlie hastily said as soon as his father's gaze was upon him. Luckily for him, the only recognizable trace of their adventures was the discoloration of his temple to where Alan's trembling eyes were drawn. He could hardly stand it to see their father so confused and overwhelmed. The whole thing hadn't seemed that bad to him. Well, ok, the hours in the dungeon had been something… nightmarish. During their hike through the wooded mountains, though, their prison had retreated further into the past and had become something Don and he'd endured successfully together. And not for the first time Charlie thought of how everything would have gone differently if Don hadn't been there.

"Oh God, Charlie, I'm so glad you're alright!" Amita had also now pulled herself out of the tensed numbness she'd been feeling as they'd heard the car draw up. She could finally breathe again, and she hugged Charlie tightly. As she released him with her eyes moist and her face wet with tears, an equally pale Larry silently patted him on his shoulder. His mouth and eyes were open as if he was seeing a ghost.

"How… how are you?" Amita asked, her words directed to both of the brothers, while she tried to dry her eyes with the backs of her hands. It was in vain, as new tears fell in a steady stream.

"We're fine, really," Charlie answered, smiling slightly. "Only a bit tired maybe."

Colby and David took that as their clue to leave. They didn't want to be intruders in an obviously emotive family reunion. Before they said their good-byes, however, the latter took from the trunk the crutches Don had been given at the hospital. When he turned back to the Eppes clan, he didn't miss Alan's wide-opened eyes by any means. As Don's trousers had covered the splint and as they were still standing by the car, his injury had been hidden from Alan's eyes until now.

"Okay then, take care," David hastily said avoiding Alan's look. He thrust the crutches at his boss, climbed into the passenger seat and disappeared with Colby into the night.

"What – what is that, Donnie?" Alan wanted to know after he'd found his voice again.

"Crutches," Don answered shortly before he got carried away with more words. "It's really nothing, dad, just sprained. I'm not supposed to strain the foot, that's all." He grinned. "Charlie patched me up good while we were still in the woods."

Larry, the reticent observer, noticed (with the help of his widely open eyes) the exhaustion in the two brothers' features. Unsurprisingly, the events had chased gauge bosons and quanta out of his mind and replaced them with concern.

"Do you… do you still need anything?" he asked into the tense silence. "Can we do anything for you?"

The two brothers smiled warmly. As much as they appreciated the sentiments, the idea of a hot shower and being able to sleep in real beds were the only things on their minds. "No, thank you, Larry," Charlie responded. "We're really just a bit tired. They gave us pain killers in the hospital."

"Oh," Amita uttered. "Oh. Then… then we'd better go."

Charlie's features turned regretful for a brief instant. He was aware, though, that he was too tired to take advantage of her presence. He was really wiped out, and after all he'd see Amita again tomorrow. And maybe by then the situation wouldn't be so strangely awkward for all involved.

"We'll drop over sometime tomorrow, though," she went on before adding hastily, "Of course only if you're okay with that."

"Now, stop it," Don smiled. "Friends are always welcome at the Eppes' house."

Both Larry and Amita gave the three men a warm smile in which there was also a generous dose of relief. Then they too said their good-byes and were gone.

Alan barely noticed their parting words. He was still looking worriedly at his two sons and at the way his eldest was favoring his injured foot. He still didn't seem to be convinced by Don's words that it was nothing, but remained silent knowing that exaggerated worry would only get on his sons' nerves.

'_But, my God,'_ he thought_, 'they'd been kidnapped! How could worry be exaggerated then?'_

The past hours and days had left an impression in his mind; an impression that would probably accompany him until his demise.

But it was over. Alan watched from the corner of his eye as his sons trudged (well, Don actually sort of hopped) into the house, tired and exhausted. He said the words in his mind, '_It's over.'_ But he didn't feel them. He knew that his sons were fine but that wasn't enough. He knew that they were home again but he couldn't take it in properly. '_They're back, they're here again, you're seeing them right in front of you.'_ It didn't work, though. As long as the memory of the fear and the worry and the trepidation was still inside him, it would never be over.

0 – 0 – 0

"So they're back?"

The Russian nodded. "We've been watching the house; they arrived there an hour ago."

The boss' features darkened. Granted, the chance had been slim, but still they'd dared to hope that something could have happened to the two of them that would have prevented them from returning home for a long period of time – or even better, never. It would have made many things a lot easier.

Now, however, they were back, and that in a way that didn't give him and his men the slightest advantage. His well-thought-out plan had been destroyed by these pests. But that had been the last time. They wouldn't mess with his business again. He would make sure that they'd never get in his way again. And above all, he'd be careful that no-one would be able to pin the tiniest bit of proof on him.

0 – 0 – 0

Alan didn't wake his sons the next morning. That was something the doorbell did. Alan wasn't too surprised to see David and Colby outside, and asked them in, just when a hobbling Don and, behind him, Charlie came down the stairs.

"Morning. How are you?" the two agents greeted them.

"Couldn't be better," Don answered happily.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" Alan asked before Charlie could reply to the friends' question. So he answered his father's.

"Dad, it's ten o'clock. We _are_ rested."

"You are?"

"Yes, dad, don't worry. We'll take care of ourselves," Don appeased him and tried to sound neither too argumentative nor too annoyed. "But we have to make our official report of the kidnapping."

"It won't take long," David, too, reassured him.

"If you say so," Alan huffed and disappeared into the garden. He'd surely find something that would keep him busy, there. He didn't know where precisely his bad mood was coming from. A large part certainly came from the injudiciousness of his sons – how could they pretend nothing had happened? –, but maybe also from the suppressed feelings of the past days. Maybe also Don's and Charlie's bad mood had rubbed off on him. Tiredness had its own part to play. That was understandable, for it was after midnight that Alan had informed Millie at her obviously concerned begging about the state of his two sons. She had really stood by him during the past two days. And despite his relief, he still hadn't found sleep since he'd made sure every half hour that Don and Charlie were really lying unharmed in their beds.

So whatever the reason for his ill humor – the fact was that it was there. The two agents on duty and the two brothers exchanged glances, but they silently agreed to leave Alan alone.

After the brothers had led the agents into the living room, David began by saying to Don, "Merrick told us to tell you that your request for desk duty has been accepted. You're on duty again tomorrow if you want. If you want he'll also sign you off for a week, though."

"And that's something he hasn't offered to anyone before, so think about it," Colby joined in, but Don shook his head.

"You don't seriously think that I'm sitting here twiddling my thumbs while these mad guys are still running around out there, do you?"

His co-workers exchanged a wry smile. No, they really hadn't thought that. And after all, they could understand Don. Charlie and he had been kidnapped by the same men that had killed a co-worker. They, too, in Don's place, would have done anything to solve the case.

"Well then, let's start at once with your reports." They all slid a bit forward on their seats as if the changed position would help them to become more serious.

Taking their statements was a long and annoying task, and Don was glad that they were doing it in the comfort of his childhood home. Charlie and he were indeed quite fine, but they still felt effects of the lack of fluids and the surplus of adrenaline of the last few days. Not forgetting the two nights spent sleeping on hard floors.

"Okay… I think that's it," David then said after an hour and a half, looking quizzically at his co-workers who nodded, a bit tired.

"I can't think of anything we might have forgotten," Don agreed and Charlie murmured a low contribution as well, "That's what I thought around an hour ago."

The three agents grinned, and also Charlie forced himself to a wry grin before he couldn't hold back his curiosity anymore. "So? What's the meaning of all this? What's behind everything?"

The agents exchanged glances. "Well," Colby then uttered, "that's exactly the thing we want to find out now."

Don nodded vigorously and thereby seemed to shake off his former tiredness. "Okay, first of all, what did these guys want from us?"

The answer came at once. "Kill you?" Colby offered, and he managed to keep up his cool façade. He noticed David's reproachful gaze and added, "What? Don't be offended, guys, I'm glad they didn't, but it damn looked like they wanted to!"

Slowly, Don shook his head. The whole thing was still pretty confusing. "If they'd wanted to kill us, they wouldn't have been holding on to us for so long."

"Maybe they wanted to squeeze you for something first?"

"But they didn't try."

"Perhaps they were waiting for someone to do it?"

"Who?" Don was gradually becoming more irritable. This whole puzzling on and on was going nowhere and the assault was definitely getting to him. "Maybe for Santa Claus?"

"Maybe for their boss," David proposed.

Don was wondering. "Possible. But honestly, I don't believe it. This whole abduction doesn't look as if it had been expertly planned, but still I don't think it wouldn't have taken a whole day to get their boss to them. Besides it wouldn't have been necessary for an interrogation, at least they could have tried earlier… no, it all doesn't make any sense."

"But it's possible," David persisted. "We should keep that option in mind."

"Well, okay," admitted Don, still slightly unnerved, "but still, it doesn't help us get a clear view of what's going on."

"And you say they didn't make any demands?" Charlie piped up for the first time in the debate. He hadn't been sure if he interrupted the agents in their work if he verbalized a thought. It was elusive; he was as uncertain again as in his first cases for Don.

"No," Colby answered. "Neither to Alan, nor to the FBI."

"And the law firm?" Don chipped in.

David shook his head. "If yes, we don't know anything about it."

"And what if," Charlie joined in again, "they just wanted to tantalize you a bit further and not make their demand until after some time? That often happens with abduction cases."

_And how do you think you know what happens in abduction cases?,_ Don wanted to retort, but he contained himself. For one, he knew that it'd be unfair – he didn't want the bad mood to rise up again – and two, it occurred to him that Charlie had not only with the FBI, but also with his other counseling jobs probably learned more than he, the Big Brother, was aware. Instead he wondered.

"Yeah," he finally uttered and was surprised that Charlie's theory did really sound logical. "That could fit."

"Okay, so that means," David summarized, "that the mobsters kidnapped you to demand the release of somebody, probably by the FBI."

"And maybe in addition to that at the law firm," Don joined in.

"For all I care. But who do they want released?"

"Prisoners?" Colby suggested.

Don shrugged. No matter which way they looked at it, nothing made sense.

"Possible."

"But wait a moment, Don." Apparently something had occurred to David. "If they kidnapped you to demand the release of something or somebody, whatever it might be – aren't you still in danger then?"

Don felt the others' tense gazes on him. In his thoughts, he agreed with his co-worker. He, too, had already come to that conclusion. For whatever reasons Charlie and he might have been kidnapped – their flight had disarranged the opponents' plans, but not destroyed them. That meant that these guys would probably come up with something new to enforce their aims. Maybe the mob had already started the planning. They'd have to make up for the lost opportunity as soon as possible and make the necessary arrangements.

"Go away, please."

Confused, Charlie stared at his brother. "What?"

"Leave the room now, please. I have to talk to David and Colby about something alone. Go in the garden or somewhere."

"What is this? Do you think you're allowed to tell me where I can and can't be in my own house?"

"Oh Charlie, that's not what it's about. Just leave us alone for awhile."

"I'm not a little child anymore! You can't order me –"

"Charlie, that has nothing to do with it." Don's voice was sharp and wasn't allowing for any disagreement. "But I have to talk about something work-related with my colleagues that quite honestly is nothing to you. It'll only take a minute."

Charlie's eyes flashed. For a long moment he just stared at his brother. Finally, however, he turned on his heels. At the bottom of the stairs he glanced back gloomily and then rushed up the stairs into his room.

_Well_, Don thought, _better than nothing_. The garden would have provided a double advantage, though: for one, Charlie wouldn't have been able to eavesdrop on their conversation, and two Don would have been able to keep an eye on him.

After the agents had heard the unmistakable sound of Charlie's bedroom door closing, they turned their gaze away from the empty stairs.

"Well?" Colby challenged Don to start the conversation. "What is it that you want us to talk about?"

"I agree with David. I also assume that the mobsters have still their sights on us. Therefore we should think about how to get Charlie and my father to safety."

Both men had been thinking along these lines themselves and were silent before something occurred to David, "And what about you?"

"Why, what about me?"

"Well, these guys are targeting you as much as your family, for whatever reason."

"Possible. So?"

David tried to decipher Don's facial expression. "That means," he explained carefully and wondered if Don was still tired and not thinking things through or really didn't think he was in danger, "that you're as well in danger and should be protected as well."

Don snorted. "Do me a favour, David, and only suggest things in the future that advance this case."

David was about to say that his suggestion was very relevant and by no means irrational, but from the corner of his eye he noticed Colby's warning gaze. Don had already hit the roof a few days ago, and since at the moment Charlie was upstairs and also Alan was very close, it didn't seem prudent to be testing David's luck.

Consequently there was an awkward silence for some seconds before Colby made the next suggestion, "Do you have any relatives they could go to for some days?"

Don wondered. "Yeah," he finally said. "Our aunt Susann lives in Baltimore. She's been wanting Dad to visit her for a long time, anyway. And she certainly would be happy if Charlie arrived with him."

"She should be," David murmured, wondering if Charlie might be in agreement, but he considered it better to think of it as the helping hand of fate that Don hadn't heard his comment. His boss was too occupied with Colby's response.

"Sounds good. Another state, a law abiding citizen probably…"

"You betcha," Don uttered. He couldn't imagine aunt Susann ever having gotten as much as a parking ticket. However, it then immediately occurred to him that he wasn't sure whether his father's sister even held a driver's licence.

"Of course we'd need a pretext and a made-up story that everyone would swallow," David participated again in the conversation.

"We'll find something, I'm sure. There'll be a math congress somewhere that Charlie just has to go to and Dad accompanies him. And that's all anyone needs to know"

"Okay, that sounds plausible. Now we should…" – David hastened to correct himself – "now it's up to you to tell the two of them."

Don sighed deeply, knowing what would come now. Anyway – he'd no choice.

"Charlie!" he called up the stairs and was nearly certain that Charlie would remain upstairs and sulk. However, his brother apparently was too curious and wanted to know the exciting things the three agents had been talking about, so he entered the living room nearly at the same time as Alan.

"What's going on?" Alan wanted to know, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He didn't seem to have lost his bad mood.

"We…" Unbelievably, Don had to clear his throat. "It's this…" How he was squirming! "It'd be better if you and Charlie went to aunt Susann's in Baltimore for a few days."

Don had been talking to his father on purpose. It was better for all of them if Alan acted as a negotiator between his two sons. At least he hoped so. He ignored the fact that past events didn't really corroborate his thesis.

Alan raised his eye-brows, but Charlie's reaction was by far more offensive.

"_What?"_, he gasped. "You _cannot_ be serious! These mobsters are still walking around free, and if –"

"That's exactly the point, Charlie," Don interrupted his little brother, determined and already quite irritable. "As long as these guys are still on the loose I do _not_ want you to roam their district without any protection!"

"But if we don't find them the whole thing won't be resolved!"

"Right, but that's not your problem! Just let us do our job and go to Aunt Susann's with dad!"

Charlie glared sullenly at his brother. It was clear that he wasn't even considering following his orders. "And you?" he demanded snappishly. "Are you coming with us to Aunt Susann's?"

"No, of course not. Someone has to solve the case, after all."

"Oh, so that means, it's two different ballgames depending on if they've kidnapped you or me, or what? Why on earth can you stay and I can't? _I can help you, Don!_ I've already started with the analysis and if –"

That was it. Don had finally reached the end of his tether. "Just be good for once, will you?" he yelled at Charlie. "I'm not letting you argue with me! You're going to Baltimore and that's it!"

Breathing heavily, they were standing face to face glaring into each other's eyes both of them feeling they were in the right and neither willing to back down.

Charlie knew that Don was serious. He didn't want to have him here, under no circumstances. But Charlie also knew that he couldn't simply leave now. For one, he couldn't leave Don alone since the danger was also there for him, and two he knew that it would be much more difficult, if not impossible, to complete the network analysis from the other side of the continent – and do it before the mob could commit a massacre. Don wouldn't give in, though. He was blind to all logic and wanted to force his own will onto Charlie.

Charlie was fuming. A surge of fury like he'd seldom felt, was boiling up inside him. Don was being so narrow-minded! At this moment, he would like to kick his brother's sorry butt into the next state. He couldn't bear to look at him anymore. It was like in Larry's office a few days ago, or was it years ago? For the moment, he couldn't tell. Abruptly, he tore his eyes away and rushed to the door. He wanted to make Don see with his own eyes that he had to stay here. But later, when he'd be able to look into his eyes without longing to send him to hell.

"You stay here!" Don shouted after him when he realized what his brother intended to do and what that meant. Charlie had already banged the door behind him, though, got on his bike to ride anywhere where he could give free rein to his anger.


	13. Chapter 13

Thanks to nastazia for your review! I'm always glad to get to know your reactions or opinions!

13 – CHAPTER THIRTEEN – 1.218^13

"Do you really think that was such a great idea?" David inquired carefully.

Don snorted. It was all he could do in order not to re-start the furious yelling.

"Well, if you ask me, it wasn't, considering…" Alan intervened, though he was immediately interrupted by his eldest.

"Of course, straight away you're on his side! You're…"

Now, however, it was Alan who interrupted, his voice steady. "Donald Eppes! I'm on no-one's side. But considering the fact that the mob is after you I don't think that you should scatter to the four winds!"

"But that wasn't my fault!"

Alan had to be a master of self-control, so calm was his response. "Nobody has said so. No-one here is blaming you."

Don silently opened and closed his mouth a few times before he found the right words. "Well, in that case… it's okay."

Don was dumbfounded. Alan had really taken the wind out of his sails. So he wasn't blaming him? Really? That was something Don could hardly comprehend. He would have understood his father very well if he'd had wanted to make him responsible. After all, he, Don himself, wasn't feeling any different…

But Charlie… Don shook his head. It was hard to believe. Charlie once again had managed to run away from a discussion. Hadn't he learned by now that it was of no use walking away from problems? Or more exactly, not the problems, but their solutions? And when for God's sake had he set himself up as the target to ignore his big brother's orders?

"You're sure you don't think Charlie's help could come in handy for us here?"

Don's head jerked upwards. He eyed David, completely stunned. "You _cannot_ be serious."

"To be honest, Don," Colby, too, barged in now, "he's already started the work. And if the mob really wants him, he won't be safer at your aunt's than here." Now, the stunned gaze was directed towards his other colleague. "Besides, it'll be difficult to persuade him to go while you stay here yourself and act like Superman."

"Granger, I –" But Don couldn't think of anything to say. He was too occupied with the possibility that maybe his co-workers were right. But, still… "If – and I'm just saying _if!_, then we'd have to bring him to a safe house at least. Or organize protection."

David and Colby exchanged a look before David carefully started, "Don, you know exactly that that's not possible. There's no sufficient evidence of danger."

Don sighed deeply. Of course he knew. But it couldn't be possible that they could not do anything at all!

He turned his head; his father had quietly cleared his throat. "It appears as if Charlie will only understand the necessity of these security measures if you, too, stick to them."

Don stared at him. What the hell was going on? How had he lost so much control of the situation? Why were they all ganging up on him? "What do you mean?"

"Well… maybe it'd be best if you came with us to Baltimore."

"Forget it, dad." The words had been verbalized before Don had even made his mind up about them. Scoot off and hope the colleagues would somehow manage everything was definitely no option. "No more talking about that anymore. We'll get Charlie persuaded somehow. He'll have to come back to his senses sometime."

* * *

David and Colby had barely said their good-byes when the phone rang in the Eppes house. While Don was still brooding about how he could persuade Charlie, Alan answered the phone. And immediately, Don was startled out of his thoughts.

"Charlie! Where are you?" Alan called, and the relief was audible in his voice. Don abruptly hurried towards the telephone, but when he got there, Alan was already standing slightly confused in front of the commode, the receiver in his hand.

"What's up?" Don inquired in alarm. It couldn't be, it couldn't be that again something had happened –

"He hung up." There must have been an awesome load of tension in Don's features for Alan hastened to appease him, "Don't worry, it's nothing. He's at CalSci and said we don't need to worry."

Don uttered a gruff grunt. _He says we don't need to worry…_ Charlie had some nerve. How were they supposed to ever get to relax while some maniacs that apparently had it in for the two of them were wandering around out there? How, under these circumstances, could Charlie just leave and tell them not to worry? Okay, at least he had called; still his conduct was completely out of the question.

Of course Don knew that it was highly improbable that something had happened to him at CalSci. And still, his tension was growing proportionally with the passing time.

Don paused. Had he really just thought the word 'proportionally'? _Proportionally?_ How the hell could that have happened to him? Could Charlie really influence his thoughts that much? That was extremely scary.

'_If only he'd just get back here_…' Then, Don could finally make him understand that he had to get out of here. As soon as Charlie was sitting in the plane, he'd finally be able to think of something different and wouldn't have to be afraid all the time that his little brother was being assaulted by dark figures, tied up and gagged, tyrannized and in the end… Don knew that it was highly irrational, but still, he couldn't dispel his worry.

0 – 0 – 0

"We have to act."

He waited for proposals. He knew that they would come for he had a voice that was easily commanded obedience.

"What about the brother?" Budanov launched the discussion. They had made sure that he wasn't being watched in spite of that little drug issue.

"Which one? If you take on the older one the whole of the FBI will get in on the act."

"That's why I'm talking about the younger one. He's a soft target; child's play to put pressure on him."

"And why would that be useful?" Malenkov interjected.

The answer was rough. "For example so that they don't get in our way the whole time. Once this math guy is gone they'll have other problems."

"You want to kill him?"

Budanov looked frankly at his boss. "That'd be silly."

"That's what I'm thinking. So?"

"Maybe it'll be already enough to intimidate him a bit. Threaten him, so that he stops helping them."

The boss nodded slowly. "Yes… That's be an idea. Yes…" He fell silent. The others were sensing that the council was over. Once the boss was deepen in his thoughts it was advisable not to disturb him.

They withdrew; they really did deserve a break. At least they knew that it was only a matter of time until they'd be out in the field again.

0 – 0 – 0

The door opened and both Alan and Don were immediately on their feet. Don grimaced slightly. He'd forgotten that he was still supposed to use the crutches, and he'd been immediately reminded of it by his protesting foot. He hastily grabbed them and followed Alan hobbling to the door where Charlie was already taking his jacket off.

"Charlie, son, there you are," Alan welcomed him, and it would have been possible to hear his relief if Alan's greeting hadn't been drowned out by Don's reproaches.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Charlie managed within one second to change the hurt expression in his face into coldness. "On the road," he answered shortly.

"And you don't care that out there mad guys are walking around, do you? Do you have any clue how worried dad was?"

"Now don't exaggerate, it's not as if something's happened to me!" _If you even care_, Charlie added in his mind, hurt. He hadn't missed that Don talking about worries had only taken his father's into account, not his own.

"And that's good," Alan intervened. "There's still something of the casserole left. You can warm it up, Charlie. Do you also want another bite, Donnie?"

"No, thanks," they both surprisingly responded as one.

"You can't just disappear like this, Charlie," Don admonished his little brother.

"Then you can stop treating me like a slave in the future."

"Against whom exactly the Dodgers are playing tonight?" Alan's attempt in redirecting the conversation fell flat.

"By the way, you're again in _my_ house lecturing me!"

"Well, with you, sometimes a lecture is very necessary!"

Alan audibly sighed, but his sons didn't seem the least impressed by it.

"I've got my own life, got that?"

"Boys –"

"And I can take care of my-"

"Boys!"

This time, Charlie fell silent. Both of them looked at their father. Their features were still marked by fury, but they were now, looking their father in the eyes, frozen in the emotion.

Alan breathed deeply. At least he had calmed them for now. "I suggest you defer your fight to tomorrow when you both will have calmed down a bit. In the meantime you can think about what this fight's really about. I'm going to bed now and I hope you're just as sensible."

With that, he left them.

* * *

For some moments, they just stood in the living-room, glaring at each other in silence. "I've got to go to the garage again for a moment," Charlie finally said unusually sharply and stepped through the back door out into the garden. With hardly three seconds time-lag, Don followed.

His brother hadn't locked the door to the garage behind him, and that might be the reason why Don didn't barge in at once. Calm down. His father had been right, they had to calm down first… but the flight was scheduled for tomorrow in the early evening and by then, Don would have had convinced his brother to leave town. So, he took a deep breath before he entered his brother's sanctum.

"May I come in?" he inquired politely and struggling for calm, but it did no good.

"You're in already," Charlie detected at once, "but go ahead. I don't care."

Again, Don breathed in and out deeply in order not to get furious again. He didn't have quite the desired success. Yes, that was exactly the problem, that Charlie wasn't caring about a lot of things. For example his life.

"You really should think about it once more," Don tried to make his point clear as discreetly as possible.

"I already have. And I'm going to stay."

"Come on, Charlie, you can't do that."

"You can bet your butt I can. I'm perfectly capable of making up my own mind."

"Oh, so it's your own decision if the Russian Mob annihilates you, right? Come on, Charlie, you've got no clue what you're getting into with that!"

"I don't?"

"No! You've always been pampered by everyone! You don't have any idea what's really going on out there! Every time something happens somewhere you crawl into your garage and ignore the rest of the world!"

Don had hit his tender spot. Charlie whirled around. His eyes were flashing. "In case you've missed it, I not only take… I've not only taken cases for the FBI, but also for the NSA, the CIA and for teams you don't even know that exist! I know very well what I'm getting into!"

"Oh yeah? And are you thinking of dad when you're doing that; so that he loses his youngest son?"

Charlie laughed, unbelieving. "You've got some cheek saying that! Which one of us loves to throw himself into every shooting? Oh, wait a minute, it's not me!"

Don was going crazy. Did Charlie just not want to get it? You just couldn't compare the two situations! "It's my job, after all!" he shouted.

"Well, mine too!"

Okay, _that_ was really something Charlie couldn't be serious about. "It's not! You're a math professor, forgot that? How many guys at your school hang around with a gun in their pocket?"

"And still it's my decision! If you stay, I've got the same right!"

_Rip_. Another nerve torn. There weren't many left. "Okay, then tell me what I should say to dad when they pull you out of the Pacific!"

"What about nothing, because they'll have already riddled you with bullets by then!"

"_Have you taken a leave of your senses?"_

The two brothers whirled around towards the voice and froze.

"He started it!" they both wanted to call towards their father, but no sound escaped from their open mouths. On one hand they weren't sure if that was right, and on the other they didn't believe it would do anything to prove their innocence to their father.

Instead, Alan continued, "How about you just both walk away from the case and accompany me? Then I wouldn't have to worry about either of my sons!"

"Dad," Don had to clear his throat, but at least he had found his voice again, "Dad, you know that's not possible. We have to find these guys."

"Yeah, we've…" Charlie wanted to join in, but he was immediately interrupted by Don who out shouted him.

"And 'we' is not you, Charlie! Just let the FBI do their job one single time, okay? Maybe it's difficult for you to imagine, but I'm not so stupid that I'm unable to do my job on my own."

After the first half of Don's remark Charlie had started to protest, but the second part had abruptly turned his thoughts into another direction. What had Don just said? What was that supposed to mean? Charlie didn't consider him stupid! What was that? And besides, that had nothing to do with their case!

Charlie just wanted to retort something without exactly knowing what, when Don went on, "Once and for all, Charlie, I do _not _want you to stay in L.A. Leave together with dad and don't come back until these guys are behind bars, okay?" He didn't even give him time to answer. He was tired, he was in pain, he was sick of the arguments. "Night."

He turned around, turning his back on the garage, and dragged himself up to his old room on his crutches. Knowing dimly that he had just evaded an argument, just like Charlie had done earlier, he closed his eyes. _At least Charlie couldn't contradict me. Now he has to go to Baltimore post haste, to the other end of the States._

With these last appeasing thoughts on his mind, Don fell asleep.

* * *

Charlie and Alan had been left in the garage. "Don't you think," Alan begun, but his son interrupted him, groaning.

"Dad, just let it be, okay?"

The incessant arguments were gradually causing headaches and he placed the dully pulsating body part into his comfortably cool hands. Alan didn't release him, though, even if he tried not to irritate his youngest. "I know that he can't give you orders, Charlie."

'_I wonder if __he_ _knows that, too?'_ Charlie mused.

"But don't you think it'd be better if you came with me?"

'_No, I don't.'_

"You could do your work from over there."

'_At least you hope so'._

Charlie sighed. "I don't think that'd be possible. Don't you understand? I constantly need new data, _a lot of_ data. It would take much too long by email or even by telephone." Alan was silent, and there was a brief battle inside Charlie wondering if he should verbalize the following words or not. Eventually, he did so, "And wouldn't you be less worried if Don didn't stay here alone?"

Alan raised his eyebrows. "Is that supposed to be funny? I'd be less worried if you both kept away from this whole thing. Can't you… can't you just come with me… for us? For Donnie and me? So that we don't have to worry anymore about everything?"

Once more Charlie sighed. Didn't his brother and his father understand that he wanted to stay here for them? The case had to be solved as quickly as possible; the danger wouldn't be over for all of them until then. The two of them had to see that, they just had to! Of course he could understand that they were worried; he was feeling the same emotions. It was more efficient, though, if he stayed here and continued working on the case.

"I can't, Dad."

Alan sighed wearily. "I was afraid of that. You're as stubborn as your brother. You two have to have inherited that from Margaret; you can't have got that from me."

"Always shifting the blame onto others, right?" Charlie responded to the welcome lightening of the mood with an attempted smile that only succeeded halfway. At least his father wouldn't push him anymore to come with him now. Only Don was still providing a problem. He wouldn't leave Charlie alone until he was sitting on the plane to Baltimore. That would mean that they'd waste valuable hours until tomorrow afternoon with senseless arguments while they had to urgently go on with the case. And again, that meant that Charlie had to resort to very unfair means.

'_I'm sorry, Don. But someday, you'll understand me.'_


	14. Chapter 14

Hi, everyone!  
…And thanks a lot to TranquilityofPassion (alias Natasa ) for your review! You can't imagine how happy you made me by these two lines!

14 – CHAPTER FOURTEEN – 1.207^14

When Don hobbled down the stairs the next morning, his brother was already loading the dishes in the dish-washer. Don paused for a moment before he decided to regard his brother as possibly friendly, but also determined.

"Morning," he greeted with some reservation as to how his brother might behave.

"Morning," the answer came back, and even if Charlie didn't look at him, the greeting still sounded friendly or at least polite.

Again Don watched his brother's movements for some moments. At least he didn't seem to run the risk of Charlie running off in order to avoid a discussion. Don felt he could take another step further. "Have you already called Millie and told her you won't be teaching the next couple of days?" Drat, maybe he'd missed a step? If Charlie just didn't go crazy again now…

"Yes."

Wait, wait, wait – what had that been? _'Yes?'_ Charlie _had_ told Millie that he was going to Baltimore? Had he gotten something wrong here? "What?"

Charlie finally turned around to look at him, his face a mask. "Yes, I have informed Millie and taken a few days off," he repeated. With all that had gone on recently it had nearly been forgotten that yesterday, CalSci's administration had chosen, with remarkably unfortunate timing, to close the disciplinary investigation and to welcome Charlie back as if nothing had happened.

Don tried to decrypt Charlie's face. He couldn't believe it: Charlie had been playing the petulant child, and now he'd come to his senses overnight and had already settled everything? That somehow sounded too good to be true.

"That means," Don assured himself, "you're really going to accompany dad to aunt Susann's? Sure?"

Charlie now sounded increasingly irritable. "What are you doing? Did you change your mind or what?"

"No, no… it's just… you're really going?"

"Yes, dammit, and now let it be!"

Don was so relieved about Charlie's decision that it didn't bother him that Charlie flew of the handle like this, nor that his brother hadn't been able to look into his eyes. Charlie had a good reason, however, for his behaviour. After all, it didn't happen everyday that you lied to your brother, particularly when that brother was an FBI agent.

* * *

Since Don and Colby were still in Pasadena around noon, they decided to drop by once more at the Craftsman before Alan and Charlie flew off into safety.

"Hi, dad. Have you already packed?", he inquired as soon as he'd entered the house. At the bottom of the stairs, there was already a mid-sized case.

Alan came out of the kitchen drying his hands with a towel. "Donnie! Nice you dropped by. Hello, Colby."

"Alan."

"You're getting along with your case?"

"A bit," Colby answered while Don said at the same time, "No". Alan acknowledged Colby with a questioningly raised eyebrow and Colby reported. "We first have to find out how the group is organized so we can detect the men having abducted Don and Charlie and those who gave the order. We hope that by that we'll be able to figure out what the organization is planning. Anyway, we have to check all the old statements once more and be sure that we and the colleagues in the previous cases didn't miss anything that could maybe help us now understand the organization's structure." Colby hesitated half a second. "We'd certainly get it done quicker with Charlie's help."

Don glanced at him angrily. "Charlie's going to Baltimore, got it? I don't want him here. End of discussion. Where is he, anyway?"

"In the garage, where else?"

"In the – _what?_ What the hell is he doing there?"

"Ask him." Charlie had informed Alan – that had been inevitable – however lying was something Alan wouldn't do for his youngest, especially not to his brother.

* * *

A few instants later, Don was standing in the garage, immediately fixated on his brother's figure standing as usual in front of the boards as if nothing extraordinary was going on. A surge of resentment rolled through him when he recognized the papers on top of the over-loaded desk as copies of the documents he himself had taken with him during their flight from their prison. There really was nothing he could do right, Don thought sullenly.

"Hey, Charlie, what you doing here?" Don didn't even try to hide his resentment. Although the plane didn't take off for a few hours – Charlie had to let go of this case once and for all. And the sooner the better.

His brother didn't even turn around and face him. "I'm trying to bring the work to termination as much as possible. Rounding off threads. So that I won't get tripped up."

"So you want to go on working, from over there?"

"What are you doing here anyway?"

"We're on our way from an interview and…"

"I thought you're supposed to be on desk duty, because of your ankle."

"It boils down to the same. And now don't try distracting me – you don't really want to continue over there, do you!"

"You want to forbid me even that or what?"

"Now come on, Charlie, everything I'm doing is for your own safety."

"And what are you doing for _your_ safety?"

"I'll take care of myself, don't worry, okay?"

"Yeah?"

"Yes, I promise. But now you too have to promise me you'll keep out of the matter."

"As soon as I'm safe with dad, nothing will happen to me anyway. And if I'm not mistaken you could use some help as well."

Don made an unhappy face. Of course, Charlie was in general right – but who could guarantee to him that Charlie was really going to be safe in Baltimore? The less his brother had to do with this case, the better.

"Have you even packed yet?" Don guided the conversation to other areas again.

"No, not yet."

Don stared at him. "You _do_ intend flying together with dad, don't you?"

Charlie didn't answer immediately. God, this really wasn't easy! He still had to string Don around a bit, though. Until Don realized that Charlie had no intention of leaving and that the plane had flown to the east coast with only Alan on board. They would both then, independently from each other, be able to work at least some hours efficiently. And when Don realized that Charlie was still there, he would have thought of something to justify his choice and why logically it was better that he was here in LA. Don would realize that somehow Charlie should stay and that it was for the best.

Until then, he'd just have to keep up appearances. "Do you want to call Millie? She can confirm it to you if you don't believe me. I've really signed off the next couple of days." That was right. After all, Don didn't have to know that he'd taken some days off to work on the case. "Do you want her phone number?"

"No, of course not." Don was aware that it would have been a sincere betrayal of trust if his response had been different. "I believe you." And after all, his father also had her number.

Charlie whirled around to turn towards the boards and thereby hide his grimace. Don believed him. Nice. And Charlie was lying to him. Great.

"Colby and I have to go on now," Don informed him. He was aware that he wouldn't manage to get anywhere with his brother today. "After all, we only dropped by to say bye."

Charlie closed his eyes in tension. God, it was really more difficult than he'd feared. He bit his lower lip and then said to his brother, though without turning around, "Okay. Take care. Be careful. See you. Bye."

Don stared at him. Well, okay, they weren't a family that constantly touched each other, and their relationship might be a bit tense at the moment, but Charlie could have at least looked him in the eye, right? Who knew, after all, when everything would be sorted out here and they'd see each other again?

Don stepped behind Charlie and laid his hand on his shoulder. Still, Charlie didn't turn around. It had to be enough, though. "Okay… you too take good care of yourself, listen? And dad. Make sure that he and aunt Susann don't argue too much."

Charlie could hear that Don was smiling, but he felt more like crying. "Uh-huh," he muttered.

Don hesitated another brief moment, but then realized that Charlie wouldn't turn around, squeezed his shoulder briefly and then left the garage. '_Take care, Chuckie_,' he thought sighing quietly, glancing back towards his brother in front of his boards. '_Take good care of yourself.'_

0 – 0 – 0

"Anything new?"

"They've sent the old one away," Malenkov reported. He raised the corners of his mouth sneeringly when the boss bowed his head, elbows on the table, hands folded against each other. They weren't far from Hollywood, and its influence seemed to have spilled over into criminal circles. Malenkov found the whole situation so absurdly cinematic that it appeared nearly laughable. Only the subtitles were missing, but after all, everybody in their group understood the Russian language. And the rest fit perfectly into the image: the calm figure at the great table, the room and the darkened windows. Yes, that was how people imagined a mafia boss. Just – why didn't _he_ feel as if he stood in front of one?

Anyway, the fact was that they would attract as little attention as possible in the small and nondescript apartment that served them as their headquarters – and it was much easier in a low populated area than out of town in industrial or office areas.

To avoid attracting attention, they had also pulled down the blinds, very like a normal citizen. Only the darkness of the room was something that Malenkov was tempted to put down to the boss's fondness for drama. The boss said he could think better in the dark and he'd get a headache from the light. He didn't seem aware, though, that the darkness matched his black soul and of course that it definitely had an impact on the atmosphere.

Malenkov still couldn't wipe the taunting grin from his face. The boss – did he even deserve the term? – was sometimes pretty quirky and his decisions, although made with the co-management of the others, sometimes got them into trouble. He was very willing to take risks; otherwise he wouldn't have got into this position. However, it just didn't always end well.

A case in point was what happened with the abduction of the two Eppes brothers. True, they couldn't have foreseen the escape – but it really was close to arrogance to kidnap a federal agent. And now they had to pay. It seemed they now had the whole agency on their backs. For example the fact that they had sent the father into safety hinted at that. The FBI was preparing for war.

"Where is he?" the boss inquired.

Malenkov's grimace disappeared from his face and his features froze. "We don't know. We only know they've sent him away, but not where to."

"The brother?"

"Is still there. The agent also wanted him to leave, though, but he didn't. He's still in the house."

Malenkov watched the boss frown. Maybe they had acted too late. Maybe they should have taken care of this brother first. However, postponed was not abandoned. "This brother… couldn't we do something there?"

"What do you mean?"

Eventually, the boss lifted his head, his eyes still looking at nothing before he continued talking slowly. "I don't know yet… But something will turn up. We'll have to consult with the others."

0 – 0 – 0

The afternoon came with further inteviews and ended in trolling through piles of dusty, badly organized files. During the tough interrogations, Don had wondered if he should work through the night so that they could finally get somewhere but he knew that they might still be sitting here for days or even weeks. And besides, he was still tired and exhausted from the overwhelming events of the past days. Still, it was ten o'clock in the evening before David, Colby and Don finally called it a day.

Don decided to stay in the Craftsman that night. The majority of the arguments just argued against his apartment. For one, the distance to his flat was greater, and for two, he could this way verify if everything was alright at the house. Check that the stove and iron had been turned off. And besides, his Charlie's house was more comfortable and maybe he would feel nearer to his family and not so lonely…

Don managed a wry smile. '_Stop this sentimental bullshit!' _Still, he guided his SUV to Pasadena, with the splint on his foot serving him very well.

The Craftsman lay in front of him, abandoned and dark. Don let the cumbersome crutches in the trunk, opened the door and entered slowly and quietly. It was a strange feeling; he nearly felt like a trespasser, as if he had no business being here as long as his father and brother were gone.

He decided not to switch the light on. He was tired and fed up and the bright lights would just make him unnecessarily awake. He wasn't in the mood for an evening of TV alone, or really anything else to be frank. He just wanted to sit on the sofa and think, finally calm down…

There was a light current of air coming from somewhere. It took Don only seconds until his head told him that something was wrong. There was a draft, he was sure – but there couldn't be one, could there? With Charlie, Don wasn't certain, but at least Alan would check every window a second and third time before he left the house for a few days, even if they had to leave fairly suddenly. So where was this gentle breeze coming from?

Forgetting his tiredness, Don strained every muscle. Somebody had to be here, here in the house. Burglars? Or even the mafia? Maybe they had wanted to assault Charlie and Alan in their sleep and… or they wanted to take advantage of the abandoned Craftsman and spy how far Charlie had advanced with his work. Whatever it might be – maybe they were still inside and that meant to Don that he had to be careful.

As quietly as possible, he drew out his weapon and sneaked to the back door from where the draft was coming. He didn't like this, he didn't like this at all. All of a sudden, he had a burning urge to call for back up, but his mind told him that by now it was too late, that he'd give himself away that way. And anyway, there was no reason to suppose a crime was being committed here. Apart from the queasy feeling in his gut.

In the wan moonlight Don could now – although barely – distinguish the silhouette of the back door that led to the garden. He went the few steps towards it and felt out with his hands for the wood. The door was open.

Don couldn't deny feeling threatened. _There's someone here…_ He could sense the presence of another creature that was here somewhere, close to him, much too close…

The hand with the gun still stretched out in front of him, Don was about to turn when he received a heavy blast on his forearm and the weapon fell out of his hand.


	15. Chapter 15

15 – CHAPTER FIFTEEN – 1.197^15

In a knee-jerk reation, Don crouched, pressing his painful arm against his stomach. An instant later he realized that he mustn't give himself away so unprotected, that he had to fight. He was just about to straighten up and confront his attacker when the person was already on him. A human body hit him hard from the side and Don landed on the floor even harder.

Now, however, Don was back again: he rolled sideways and he managed to ignore the pain in his ankle as well as the pain caused when his head banged against the chair leg. He saw the shadow of the attacker, only a silhouette in the dark room. The shadow threw itself upon him, but this time Don managed to tuck up his legs and to push the attacker away. The rumble disturbing the night silence told him that his opponent had gone down on the floor as well, a meter from him.

Don immediately picked himself up and kept his opponent in this disadvantageous situation, on his stomach on the floor, Don's knee in his back. The other reared up under Don's weight, thrashed about wildly and tried to get free, but Don was stronger and in a more favorable position. His training as a federal agent paid off fully when he, against his silent opponent's desperate resistance, grabbed his arms and pulled them on his back ready to cuff the guy. He heard the vanquished man hiss when his arms were forced behind and just to make sure he knew what he was dealing with, Don tightened his grip.

His opponent was still trying to get free when Don pulled his handcuffs from his belt and fastened them on the intruder's wrists with a final and satisfying clunk_._

Don inhaled deeply. It was done. While the surplus adrenaline gradually made itself felt, Don bent his head down, near his prisoner's ear. "Not a sound, got me?" he whispered. "Is there anybody else in here?"

Don hoped imploringly that the guy would say 'no', although he knew that he couldn't trust his word. However, if the guy had an accomplice with him, it was very possible that they had heard the sounds of their struggle and were already on their way to them. And depending on their number, Don had a serious problem. Although… if he could get to his weapon, he would be able to use this one as a hostage. The only problem was that his gun was somewhere in the dark of the kitchen.

Don's question was followed by multiple seconds of silence and a quick gasp before a trembling voice whispered, "Don?"

* * *

Don fell from the body backwards. He had to be mistaken. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible. And still, still he had recognized the voice!

"Charlie?" he asked incredulously, already some decibels louder than he had just before.

The other person uttered a groan in which you could definitely hear the relief. "What the hell is going on?" he asked under his breath. There was no possible doubt anymore; Don had just been fighting with his little brother.

In order to be completely sure and, above all, to fish for time for an answer, Don struggled to his feet, hobbled quickly through the room and turned the light on. He had to squint his eyes at first – after the darkness the light was much too bright – but his eyes didn't take too long to adjust and the image in front of him that would probably have made him laugh in another situation was revealed: there he lay, his little brother, outstretched on the floor in the kitchen, his hands cuffed behind him, his head twisting trying to find the figure of his big brother.

It wasn't until Charlie's moaning attempt to turn on to his stomach that Don jolted out of his freeze the grotesque sight had forced him into. "Shit, man… sorry, Charlie, I'm sorry…," he stammered and hurried to help his brother. He first fumbled at his pocket, drew out the key for the handcuffs and then dropped it as his hands were shaking. When he had picked it up again, he first couldn't manage to open the lock, but eventually he managed and Charlie pushed himself into a sitting position from which he could stare at his brother. He moaned slightly when the pain reminded him of where Don's knee had been shortly before.

"What the hell is going on?" Charlie repeated his earlier question, calmer, but no less dumbfounded. "What are you doing here, after all?"

"I –" Don began and immediately asked himself the question. Why the hell had he come over here? To look after the house, because his dad and Charlie had gone away because… Wait a sec! "I could ask you the same thing!" Don retorted, his voice suddenly sharp. What the hell was Charlie doing here? Why wasn't he in Baltimore?

"Now wait, listen, this is _my _house, after all, or did I miss something here?" Charlie bristled at his tone, and unfortunately that did nothing to calm Don down.

"Damn well possible that you missed something, for example your flight to Baltimore!"

"And that justifies you assaulting and cuffing me?"

Despite himself the feeling of guilt came back with all its power at Charlie's words. "Listen, I've already said that I'm sorry…" he tried to apologize. He hesitated, letting his gaze wander across his brother's figure. "… Are you alright?" he eventually asked worriedly, the anger dissipating all of a sudden.

" 'Course." Of course his arms were still hurting a bit, and he had detected that the kitchen floor was extremely hard (particularly if one fell on his hip where he already had a bruise from some hair-raising escape attempts from a dungeon in the mountains), but that was no reason to complain. "And you?" now it was Charlie's turn to inquire. Even if the he still felt the shock in each of his limbs (he was still shaking like a jelly!), even if he wanted to know what Don was doing here and even if he was afraid of Don's reproaches, this question was of priority.

"Big boys don't cry," Don shook it off, rubbing casually the penetratingly pulsating lump on his head. Before his next fight, he would carry away any chairs and other danger zones first, he resolved. He pushed himself onto his feet, grimaced slightly when he put weight on the hurt ankle, and stretched a hand out for his brother. "And now get on your feet again, buddy. You can't make me believe that you're so out of it you'd rather stay on the ground."

Charlie dared an agonized grin and let himself be pulled onto his feet. Without a word, the brothers left the fight site and sat down at the dining table. They both knew that they had to talk – even though neither of them was looking forward to that conversation. Maybe that was the reason why Don started talking, but tried to postpone the interesting part.

"You really alright?"

"Certain. But maybe you could check next time who you're gonna beat up."

Don was looking down at the table in front of him, but he wasn't going to take the blame alone. "And why didn't you just make some noise?"

"Did I know if there were more of you strolling about the house? And anyway, I could ask you the same question."

"And I could give the same answer. I mean, I come in and see that someone has broken in." With the following words, his voice became gradually more bitter, as if to show that they were slowly approaching the more explosive part of their conversation. "After all, I couldn't know that it was you because you were supposed to be on your way to Baltimore."

Charlie shifted uneasily on his chair. Oh no, he didn't like that at all. He felt as if he'd been backed into a wall, threatened by an agitated lion who was becoming more and more irritated. "I told you it'd be better if I stayed."

"Yeah, and then you told me you were going with dad."

"Because you've been so insistent! I didn't want to lie to you, but you didn't give me a choice!"

"I didn't give you a choice? So now you're saying that it's my fault that you lied to me?"

"No, of course not, but…"

"But what?"

"What was I supposed to do!" Charlie flared up. "I couldn't just leave, you should be the one to understand that best! But you just didn't want to leave me alone! I tried the truth, but you wouldn't accept it!"

"And you wouldn't accept that you had to leave!" Don jumped up from his chair. Charlie winced when his brother's hand slapped down on the table loudly.

* * *

While Charlie was silent, Don strode – no, hobbled – speedily and sharply up and down by the dining table; that was currently the only opportunity he had to vent his anger. Gradually, the realization of what had been happening here hit him. Charlie was still here. He hadn't left for Baltimore although he had promised Don. Charlie had told him he'd accompany their father and he hadn't done it. Charlie had… he had lied to him! _He had lied to him!_

Dark, heavy disappointment weighed down on him. His little brother had lied to him. He hadn't trusted him. After everything that had happened between them he'd told him one lie after the other. Don felt like beating something up, like running away, shouting; but his wanderings along the table remained the only way of calming down. But it wasn't enough. His anger threatened to suffocate him, and his sub-consciousness found the only possibility for salvation in giving him the omnipresent mask of fury.

"Why did you do that," he demanded to know.

"I've already told you," Charlie answered calmly although his voice was trembling. Despite his anger he was by now far too intimidated to start the counter attack.

Don shook his head. "How the hell could you possibly have done this?"

"Don't believe it's been easy for me," Charlie mumbled. Don's marching up and down just enforced the similarity of his situation with the lion's den. His brother behaved just the way Charlie had feared. Okay, in his fears Don had been louder, but his day might still come. And the main aspect remained unchanged: Don didn't understand him. And yet his brother did the same as he did, because he too was staying and anyway… Wait a sec! "Do you remember the last time that we – that you had to deal with the Russian Mafia?"

Don uttered a grunt that Charlie classified as acknowledgement. "How could I forget that," his brother growled.

"You lied to me, then."

Don stared at him. "I did?"

"You lied to me. You claimed you weren't working on the case anymore, and you forbad me to continue working on it. But that wasn't true, you were still in charge."

For an instant, Don didn't know what to say. The memory became vivid again: yes, he had lied to his brother then, and he had felt bad about the situation. It had been necessary, though.

"To protect you."

"What?"

"I only lied to you in order to protect you so that you'd finally keep away from the case. But as it turned out you didn't listen to me back then either.

"It was useful, though, wasn't it? My analysis contributed to solving the case, or am I mistaken?" Charlie knew exactly that he was not mistaken. The feeling of triumph inside him seemed inappropriate to him, but it did him made him feel better. Don had just trapped himself.

Only Don didn't seem to agree with that. "Just because the advantages outweighed the risks _then_, that doesn't mean that they will now. And believe it or not, we're no idiots. We'd have found out sooner or later, too, what had been behind the mafia then. Just let us do our jobs and stay out of it."

Charlie was gradually reaching the end of his tether. Don found a new counter argument every time; he just didn't want to surrender. Oh, this stubborn sod! Why couldn't he just let others help him?

"It's not that I don't believe that you would also have found it out; there's just the question of the 'when'. Or, for example, for this case have you already found out that the mafia is in reality two mafias?"

"So that's what you've found out? Interesting." Don was looking at him coolly. He really could try anything he wanted – Charlie didn't give a damn about his opinion. Again and again he came with some details to another case in order to distract Don from his indisputably bad behavior. However, this time it wouldn't work. He paused briefly, but then the words lying on his tongue left his mouth. "Is that true or are you just lying again to be on site and to experience some excitement?"

_Is that starting again_. Charlie inhaled sharply, although trembling. "Listen to me. Please." He dared a look in his brother's face. Yep, he had his attention. Though that didn't mean that this became easier for him. "I really didn't want to lie to you, Don. But I just couldn't put up accept the thought of leaving for Baltimore and waiting to see what will happen. And I'm still of the opinion that we'll have a bigger chance of solving the case if I stay."

Don paused his pacing and looked steadily in his brother's eyes for a long moment. He took in everything: Charlie's nervousness, the pallor of his face, his exhaustion. Nothing escaped him, not even that his brother held out against his gaze and not even the determination behind the tiredness. Charlie wouldn't leave. No matter what Don might say, no matter how much he'd shout at him – it would be of no use. Charlie had gotten it into his head and he wouldn't go back on his decision. And now he was arguing from a stronger position; after all, Don couldn't simply kidnap him and haul him off to Baltimore.

Although, that thought wasn't completely without its attractions.

Don turned away from his brother, sighing heavily and severely. Okay. Okay, so that's the way it was going to be. Charlie had won. Don surrendered. He couldn't go on. He was tired of all the arguing, the eternal, useless attempts to convince his brother. He wouldn't pester Charlie anymore. "Okay. So stay. But don't tell me later I didn't warn you."

Don knew that he now couldn't do anything anymore, and left the house without a further word. If he couldn't bring his brother to his senses, he washed his hands of any responsibility for him at least. He had nothing to do with this whole thing anymore. Let Charlie do what he wanted; Don didn't care.


	16. Chapter 16

Thanks a lot to the reviewers! Criticism (especially positive criticism :), but also negative one!) is always welcome! 

16 – CHAPTER SIXTEEN – 1.189^16

"Don?"

Charlie could hear the door falling shut and stared at the point where his brother had disappeared. What was _that_ supposed to be about? Not even a farewell, no further questions about the case? A shame, because this time Charlie would really have been able to give him some news!

Today, he had finished his provisional analysis of the mafia – or rather, analysis of _both _mafias. Charlie had first thought he'd made a mistake. He had verified repeatedly all his calculations, all initial conditions and each step of his analyses, but he'd reached the same result again and again: they weren't up against one, but two mafias.

First, Charlie had been shocked. Two mafias? As if one hadn't been enough! However, when he'd taken a closer look at his result, he'd became aware that the second mafia weren't necessarily going to be a problem, for the two groups seemed to compete against each other. All their actions of the past months seemed to come down to one objective. An objective he hadn't been able to detect up till now.

By now, he'd only been able to assign some of the upper members as belonging to the main mafia and lesser members to a minor mafia that apparently had separated from the big organization more or less officially some time ago. He'd figured out the most probable identities of the bosses of the two mafias, although these results weren't certain. He'd have liked to have been able to also classify the lower or at least the middle members. However, he'd then figured out that he couldn't get further. He hadn't been able to concentrate anymore. He'd caught himself multiple times when his thoughts had wandered until he'd finally decided to turn the lights off and continue the next day.

However, just when he'd entered the Craftsman through the still open back door he'd heard steps. In the darkness, he hadn't been able to detect who was there, but his desire to switch on the kitchen light hadn't been very strong. Instead, he'd crept as quietly as possible into a dark corner of the room, and waited for the right moment (according to his estimation) to attack the intruder.

Charlie shook his head slightly. There was probably no one who would believe this story. Even to him it still seemed so unreal. Two brothers who behaved as burglars in their own home attacking each other…

He sighed. Who could honestly believe that everything was all right?

0 – 0 – 0

The boss turned around when he heard the door open. Two of his men came in and he lifted his eyebrows. The rest of his face didn't change; the mask remained; and words weren't necessary. "The father isn't there anymore," Oleg Borisov said. "They must have taken him to a safe place somewhere. We don't know where."

"When?"

"A couple of hours ago."

The boss's face darkened. He hated learning about things when they'd already happened. Granted, the father hadn't been part of his plans, but he didn't like it at all that now he was being forced to leave it that way.

"And what are we going to do now?" Boris Chrushtshov wanted to know.

The boss thought. "Wait," he eventually answered. There was silence for a while. Borisov and Chrushtshov were a bit unsure what to do. Leave? They became a bit uneasy when the silence continued on. However, as long as their boss didn't tell them to leave, they had to stay.

Maybe they'd be needed to answer further questions. "What are the others doing?"

Chrushtshov took up the task. "We don't know exactly; we've got no concrete information right now. They don't seem to have changed their tactics, though."

The boss nodded. That was good. Maybe everything would sort itself out if the other players acted.

0 – 0 – 0

It was late morning when Charlie woke up. Originally he'd intended to get to the garage early in order to complete the analysis, but this time his exhausted body had won out and successfully demanded a time-out.

Without wasting time with a breakfast, the professor hurried to his boards. Within minutes he was sucked into his world of numbers and formulae. Gradually, the separate parts were knitting together to form a picture; again and again he found a new piece of the puzzle, a new connection…

It was already noon when Charlie surfaced from his thoughts and he remembered that he'd originally intended to present his results to the FBI that morning. How could he have possibly forgotten that?

The answer was maybe not too difficult. Charlie's subconscious was probably not that eager to make a decision that would again bring him into Don's immediate vicinity. Yet, he apparently had no other choice.

It might be childish. It was certainly childish, but Charlie hadn't been able to overcome his feelings and call Don directly. Instead, he had let himself be passed on by the main switchboard with the faint hope that David or Colby or anyone else walking by might randomly take the call.

"FBI, Special Agent Colby Granger."

Wow. His plan had worked out.

"Hello Colby, I –"

"Charlie, hey! You wanna talk to Don? Wait a sec –"

"No!"

Charlie's answer came out so violently it not only stunned the FBI-agent, but also himself. "No… uh… th-that… that's not necessary, certainly not. I can just explain it to you."

"What?"

"I've got news about your case, important news."

"Wait, could you maybe come over quickly and tell me and the others directly? I don't know if I'd be capable of giving a good account of what you're going tell me."

Charlie could hear from the tone that Colby had to be grinning whereas his own mien was more resembled a whimper. Of course, with information relating to the case, it'd be more helpful if he went to the office. However, that would mean that he'd see Don again and that he'd have to face him instead of just smuggling the information past him.

Colby was right, though. He didn't want to play Chinese whispers here; the information was too important for such things. "All right. I'll be with you soon."

He hung up, sighing heavily, collected his documents and hit the road.

* * *

A bit later he stepped out of the elevator, seeing David immediately who'd just put down the phone. "Hey Charlie," he greeted Charlie when had come nearer, "it's good you're here! Come along to the conference room." And he led the mathematician into one of the rooms where he'd already explained his theories multiple times.

"You can connect your laptop and do whatever you need; you know your way around, don't you? I'll go get the others," David informed him leaving him alone. Charlie briefly looked after him, standing indecisively in the room for some seconds then finally started getting his data ready.

He was just starting the program showing the network when the door opened and the three agents entered the conference room. Charlie looked up and suddenly felt he was back in the law firm when he'd delivered his talk. Indeed, Colby and David were looking at him openly, but Don's bitter features were enough for all three of them. Had this rift between them really only been last Thursday, not even a week ago? How could all these things have happened since then?

Charlie swallowed, forcing his gaze away from Don. "As I explained to you earlier, I worked out the structure of the organization with a network analysis", he began. "That means I'm still on it. However, I've got already some valuable findings that should – I think – help you. The most important characteristic about this organization is probably the fact that it's not merely one, but two mafia groups."

"What?" Colby interrupted with a trace of dismay on his face. "Are you saying that we not only have to deal with the Russian Mob, but also with another?"

"No, that's not the way I mean it. It is the Russian Mafia; however, it is split into two sub-groups. Imagine a road from which a dirt road branches off with both ways arriving at the same destination. On the normal road, there are more vehicles than on the dirt road, but the cars on the dirt road are more familiar with the area. Although they cannot drive as fast as the others, they hope to come to their end faster because, with their know-how knowledge of the area, they can take a short cut, namely this dirt road. The two mafia groups are to be seen in a similar configuration: the smaller branch-mafia tries to outsmart the big mafia by taking the dirt road. They haven't as much power, but they are smart and have got very ambitious men for there are practically no subordinates. The group consists of people from the former middle echelon of the big mafia that have broken away and that, if they're successful, all have the same profit."

"Okay," said Colby, "this is really a new development. But I'm afraid I can't see how that could help us in any specific way."

"But that's clear! You had a completely wrong initial situation! For instance, you arrested Kalinkov because you thought Norvtcharov's death would give him an advantage even if Norvtcharov's cover hadn't been blown. But since Kalinkov now has a different position in the network, namely one in the branch-mafia, it's extremely unlikely that he killed your agent, at least that he did it himself. He's got an extremely high position in the group; I even suppose that he's at its head."

David frowned. "Wait, didn't you just say that there is no hierarchy in the branch-mafia?"

"No, I didn't. Of course there's a hierarchy in the branch-mafia: there's the boss, an upper echelon and a middle one, as far as I've been able to determine. The difference is that the organization, being smaller and their members having made the decision to become independent, is much more – let's say democratic – than the big mafia. Also the middle echelon seems to have an influence in the decision-making of the organization, even if it often has to take tasks that in the big mafia would be pushed over to the under echelon. Therefore, it's likely that either someone from the branch-mafia's middle echelon or someone from the original mafia killed Norvtcharov. In any case you now have a motive for his murder. For if you exclude that his cover was blown, there's, I think, only the motive to rise through the ranks due to his death."

"But did Alex have such a good standing in the mafia? He hadn't been in the group for long."

Charlie was silent, thinking. Yeah, there was some truth in David's words. "You're right," he agreed. "I still haven't been able to give him the correct rank in the organization; there are some inconsistencies. However, a killing because of hierarchy reasons still remains possible. You have to bear in mind that your victim, if you want to get promoted, may only be one or two steps higher than you, otherwise you clear the position for someone that's beyond you in the ranking."

"But the way you've displayed it, Norvtcharov's murderer must come from their own group. So in which of the two groups has he been in?"

"I don't know yet, David," Charlie admitted. "As I said, there are some inconsistencies; some of the actions seem to contradict with other actions, and I have numerous members that I still can't allocate a position to."

"Couldn't it be –," began Colby, then stopped deep in thought. "Couldn't it be, that someone suspected Norvtcharov of being a mole?"

Everyone in the room, even the hitherto motionless Don, was staring at Colby. He sensed their gazes on him and hurriedly went on, "Hey, I'm not proud of it, but I'm well versed in this stuff." Since a bit over a year ago they all had thought that their friend was a double agent for the Chinese government before they'd found out that he had been working as a triple agent _against_ the Chinese, it didn't occur to them to doubt his knowledge. "As the two mafias have the same objective, it could be that they wanted to spy on each other or at least that they were afraid of espionage from the other group. And because Norvtcharov spied for _us_, it could be that his behaviour had aroused suspicion among the members of the organization, couldn't it?"

They all fell into a thoughtful silence that was ended by Don. "That sounds plausible. The only question now is if we can prove it."

As if on cue both of his colleagues looked at Charlie who didn't miss that Don's features darkened even further. He knew his brother well enough to know that he hadn't wanted to increase Charlie's further participation in the case with this statement. However, that surely enough didn't keep Charlie from answering the two federal agents' unexpressed question: "It could be difficult. I'll probably be able to detect if Norvtcharov had acted as a mole for one of the two parties or not…"

"But that's rather unlikely," Colby interrupted. "He would have given any information to the Bureau. The question is only if the other members considered him a mole."

"And for me that seems to be impossible to determine. I can only give you the probability with which Norvtcharov, according to the mobsters' state of knowledge, has been a mole, and what his position in the group was. But to find out how other people saw that? I'd really have to speculate a lot to get an idea."

Silence fell. This was usually the moment when Don told everyone what they had to do. Don remained silent, though.

"Do you... do you have any more questions?" Charlie's gaze rested hesitantly upon Don.

Don's colleagues also looked at their boss before David finally began to speak and by that took the initiative, "No, I guess that's all for now, Charlie. Thank you."

"David, you check again everybody with whom Norvtcharov was in contact as far as we know, and you, Colby, take a look at the members of the sub-mafia." All of them were both relieved and surprised when Don finally started talking, even if Charlie's relief remained limited – not having missed that Don had neither addressed him nor responded to him in any way.

"Well... see you and... work well." After Charlie had closed his laptop, he remained standing in the door for some seconds, but beside David's and Colby's good-byes the three of them had nothing more to offer him.

Charlie swallowed hard and left the conference room. On his way to the lifts he felt like crying due to the pain in his heart. Once more he had screwed it up. He had made the wrong decision. He hadn't listened to Don, had lied to him and acted against his orders and now he was paying for it. His brother hated him and didn't want to have anything to do with him anymore.


	17. Chapter 17

Thanks for reading (and commenting!) the story! Hope I won't disappoint you.

17 -CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - 1,181^17

"Sanchez's causing problems, boss."

"What problems?"

"The others seem to be putting pressure on him. Looks like he's thinking about changing his statement concerning Kalinkov."

The boss twisted his face into a diabolic grin. It was hard to believe that the devil's mask could be so cold. "If they can put pressure on Sanchez, then we can do so also. Actually, it already worked once."

0 – 0 – 0

Angrily, Charlie hit the wall next to the blackboard. The slightly uneven surface caused a welcome pain and he repeated the movement multiple times. He dove onto the couch, sensing the pulsating throbbing on the bottom side of his fist. He still wasn't sure if he'd not done something bad to his hand, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything. If Don hated him, the one person whose approval he had always been fighting for – then what was the sense in anything?

His calculations were useless. He wasn't getting anywhere. Since he'd left the FBI some hours ago, he had been here, though it had been of no use to him. He'd not been able to concentrate on the case. Even though both Amita and Larry had called after their lessons to ask him how he was and also to see if they could help him, Charlie had refused. He didn't want to drag them into this issue. He didn't want to endanger them. He didn't want to carry out experiments about how many times one individual could, within a few days, make a serious mistake. He had already lost one person. He didn't want it to become more.

All of a sudden, Charlie felt infinitely lonely. He had lost his brother and wasn't sure if he could ever get him back. He nearly regretted that he had refused Amita's offer to come over. Right now he would have liked to hold her in his arms. The thought of her pushed aside every number and every formula and every mobster from his mind and he was about to call her when he stood abruptly. No, he had made up his mind to keep away from her and from Larry in the foreseeable future; one, in order not to be distracted and two, to prevent providing the mafia with another target.

More determinedly than he would have believed himself capable of, he returned to the house in order to escape the confines of the garage. Though he realized soon what an idiot he was. The deserted rooms of the Craftsman didn't really help him to get rid of this feeling of loneliness inside him. Not even his father was here.

_Now come on, stop it!_ Charlie admonished himself impatiently. He knew that he was being selfish. The people he loved had to be safe, nothing else mattered. If to ensure this he had to be alone for some days, he was willing to pay the price. He didn't mind not seeing them for a while. No, really, as long as this way they were safe.

However, Don _wasn't _safe.

The next morning, things had already seemed to have settled a bit. The arguments with Don had faded back into the background to some degree. They were still present (a bit too present for Charlie's taste) when he thought about them, but the right distance to realize that his brother would be safe – or at least in a safer situation – the quicker Charlie finished his analysis and the mafia members were caught.

Charlie managed to work better. The world of numbers absorbed him and he didn't take long to find his way in to the new, but well-known surroundings and to find what he was looking for. The path to the end was plastered with hints, and here and there he could even find clear clues on the wayside. Sometimes he stumbled over some evidence on the way to which he always turned around to take a closer look at.

Just as he had now.

Maybe he had made an error after all?

However, Charlie by now had been working long enough both as a consultant for the FBI and as a mathematician to know that logic was much more reliable than gut feeling. If his calculations told him something he wouldn't have thought before or even something he at first didn't understand, then this meant by no means that the numbers and formulae were lying.

Be that as it may. Charlie had to tell someone, so he grabbed the phone. Maybe the federal agents would be able to make a sense of it.

"FBI, Special Agent Sinclair."

"Hey, David. I got a result from my network analysis that made me wonder."

David didn't have to think for long who was on the other end of the line. There weren't a lot of people that would that blurt things straight out like that. And one of them was the brother sitting opposite him, after all. "Hey, Charlie. Did you find out something?"

"You could say so. As I said, I couldn't quite understand it myself, but I went over it several times and I got the same result every time. In my analysis, José Sanchez comes up."

"Who?"

"José Sanchez. I've found him in the documents you gave me. The witness who accused Kalinkov."

"Ah, right." The cogs in his brain started turning faster. José Sanchez had come up in the analysis? Was he a member of the mafia? But he was Mexican! "And... what about him?"

"I don't know for sure, but it seems as though he'd been bought."

"Bought? By whom?"

Did David really need to ask? "Well, since he accused Kalinkov and Kalinkov to all appearances is the boss of the branch mafia, I guess the big mafia paid him to divert your attention onto the sub mafia and away from themselves."

"Sounds logical. So he's not a member of the mafia?"

"I can't rule that out, but it's not very likely either. Sanchez has, according to my current knowledge, contact with only one single person from the whole network, a certain Max Bolshojov. He's probably the financial backer, and also until now only involved in this one situation with you and the sub mafia, and thus Kalinkov. Therefore I take it that he's a kind of part timer who doesn't really belong to the group."

"Okay. Thanks, Charlie. I'll tell the others."

And David had hardly hung up when he turned to his colleagues. "Guys? Listen." When he saw them twist their heads away from their computer monitors and in his direction, he continued, "That was Charlie." David decided to, at first, pay no attention to the fact that Don's face suddenly seemed much more reserved. "He's found out that José Sanchez is a part of the network. He's probably a witness bought by the main mafia."

"Was that the person who accused Kalinkov?" Colby inquired. After all the questioning of the witnesses of the past days his head was swirling from names.

"Correct. That means that Kalinkov is probably innocent of Alex's death after all."

"Don't be so thoughtless about the word 'innocent'," Don admonished him grumbling.

"Don's right," Colby joined in. "Just because the main mafia wants to divert the indications to the branch mafia that doesn't mean that Kalinkov really hasn't got anything to do with Alex's death."

"That's right," David pointed out, "but now we have to go over all the circumstantial evidence against Kalinkov again. Who knows how many other things the main mafia might have manipulated. If Charlie's right in saying that they have the same aim, then it's clear that they want to play off against each other. Probably half of our information is wrong."

"Great. How nice to know that everything is always that simple. Anyway. I'll check the remaining circumstantial evidence we originally had against Kalinkov then. But even if he didn't pull the trigger himself that doesn't mean that he didn't at least give the order."

"So we at least won't get bored," David sighed while Colby stood up from his chair to gather further files.

David also rose from his seat. He wanted to head for the kitchen to go get his fourth cup of coffee for today and before that he wanted to ask Don if he too needed something. However, when he glanced at the man's thoughtful and bitter features, he spontaneously changed the words that were already waiting in his mouth to tumble out, "Hey, Don... what about... do you maybe want to talk about it? I'm just saying... You should take care not to lose the ability to speak."

Don stared at him gloomily. Then, however, he noticed David's hesitant confidence, and how his colleague tried to make him talk without it ending in shouting. The care and the courage it took to do it touched him because... hold on a minute, why was he doing it? Because... indeed because he cared for his boss?

"I miss him," Don wanted to say, though managed not to leave himself that wide open. Oh no, he damn sure wouldn't sob his heart out to David about his little brother. And David wouldn't understand anyway. Of course it wasn't long ago that Don had seen him, but after all it wasn't the physical presence Don was missing. Though nobody understood except for himself.

Don was longing to talk to someone about it, and at the same time found the thought disgusting. He was afraid of how the others might react to such behaviour from him. There were but two people on this planet with whom he could talk about things like these, and one of them was currently on the opposite side of the country. And the other...

A cynical voice piped up, _Of course, talk about it with Charlie. It'll surely be a wonderful chat._

Don snorted slightly. He knew damned well why he preferred not showing his feelings. After all he was perfectly able of making an idiot out of himself on his own. The more the others knew about him, the more people could hurt him and that was something that Don wasn't keen on at all. He looked up again at David, making his gaze grimmer and shook his head. David understood that he wouldn't get off that easily another time and hurried into the kitchen.

0 – 0 – 0

Again the room was darkened, again it was only the perpetual street noise that disturbed the silence of the night; again it was as if it was in a bad crime story. This time, however, Malenkov was not in the right mood to sneer. He was unnerved. Nothing was happening. It seemed as if the others were in a better position than themselves and would be able to reach the goal more easily.

They, in their turn, just couldn't get out of trouble. Constantly there were obstacles that were keeping them from their goal. They weren't advancing and right now they were stuck. There was simply nothing happening.

"What about Sanchez?"

"We're making progress. I guess we'll soon have it at the point where he'll change his statement." _And it's about time_. It was only a matter of time before the cops would get in their way again because they wanted to arrest Kalinkov.

"And progress concerning the mission?"

"It's going fine," Malenkov answered, "at least for us." It was a hidden question. Malenkov hoped to get to know how the other departments of the organisation were advancing, how far away they were from their goal. For one thing was clear to all the members of the mob: it was the boss who pulled all the strings.

"So, we only have to wait for Budanov and his team."

Malenkov was satisfied with himself; he'd gained his information. Thus, he belonged to the circle of the confidants, the bosses. Nice to know. So he wouldn't be forced to leave and go his own way. He would also get a fair slice of the cake – always assuming that they would finally manage to make it.

"And now what about the cops?" It would mean a lot if they could only wipe them from their lists of ingredients.

The boss nodded slightly. He too had already thought about it. "We should once more concern ourselves with them more thoroughly. Watching the enemy. We have to know what they're doing. Or..." he paused; an apparently magnificent idea had crossed his mind. "Or we'll make sure that they do only what we want them to."

They locked stares not having to say anything. Malenkov had understood the order nonetheless. He'd been given free rein and it was good that way. He always worked better when he didn't have to bother about regulations. Or without any kind of scruples.

0 – 0 – 0

Charlie was again standing in front of the blackboards in the garage. After he had called David he had made relatively good progress. True, he hadn't achieved maximum performance since then, but that hadn't been necessary... at least he hoped so. Momentarily, his greatest fear was that he was missing something important because he wasn't fully on the case with his mind.

Charlie was annoyed, mostly with himself. Before, he'd always been able to concentrate fully on mathematics; why couldn't he do so anymore? Why was his mind so occupied with other things?

He closed his eyes. If, to add that, he was now beginning to argue with himself he wouldn't advance at all. His feelings had to stay out of it. Emotions and logic didn't fit together. If he now, on top of everything else, got upset, then in his mind it'd be mainly the ventral prefrontal cortex that would get stimulated, not the gyrus angularis, and if the distribution of energy looked that way, then he wouldn't be able to think, just able to feel, and then he wouldn't be able to find out what the mafia was planning and then they wouldn't advance and furthermore there'd be people in danger, and he would again screw up everything, and Don would continue to not talk to him...

_Bang__!_

The still slightly blue-greenish side of his fist had again made contact with the wall extremely violently. But now it was really enough. It couldn't go on like this.

Charlie inhaled deeply. _Concentrate. Concentrate on the case._

And then he was back again. He was again the mathematician for whom nothing seemed impossible. He calmly calculated, focused and without blinkers. He would finish this. He would find out which member of the mafia was responsible for what, what their original goal was, who belonged where.

Charlie didn't even realize that was dawn breaking as night gave way to day over him and the Craftsman. His hand automatically switched on the light before it got back into its position, becoming again a part of the calculating machine that Charlie was now. He was again deep in thought; everything was again the way it should be, at least for the time being.

Suddenly a hand was put over Charlie's mouth.


	18. Chapter 18

Thanks, Natasa, for your kind review! Hope I can alleviate your anxiety a bit with this chapter :) 

18 – EIGHTEEN – 1.174^18

Charlie started. He wanted to cry out, but the hand didn't allow him to do so. His breaths came in fits and starts as if he was afraid of the hand shutting off his air supply. Filled with horror, he rolled his eyes downwards, but he couldn't make out anything besides the silhouette of a human hand in the darkness. Darkness? Right. The light was gone. The hand in front of his mouth must have banished it. And it was more than a hand. He couldn't distinguish it with his eyes, but his sense of smell and his sense of taste told him that the hand wasn't there alone: it was covered by a glove, a leather glove. And part of a strong body.

One second and a half after the hand's contact with his mouth, his attention was drawn to another sensation. Something cold was touching his neck; it felt like metal... The same instant, Charlie knew that a knife was being held against his neck. He tried not to breathe, but the panic didn't let go of him. His breathing increased becoming short and shallow.

"Stay calm," an eerily low voice whispered into Charlie's ear, and for a moment Charlie wondered if it wanted to mock him. "Don't move. Got that?"

Charlie didn't dare stir.

"Did you get that!" The voice with the Russian accent had become more precise, though not a decibel louder.

Charlie didn't think that his trachea was in working order right now, and therefore nodded carefully urgently hoping that thereby he wouldn't cut through his own throat. He sensed, more unconsciously than consciously that the figure wasn't here alone. Someone else was standing behind him; Charlie could sense his presence. He therefore had to deal with two unknown persons of which at least one was armed. He started trembling.

"Very well," the voice purred, and shudders ran through Charlie's whole body. "You're gonna listen close to me now and not try any foul trick."

Again Charlie nodded and if by a miracle the skin at his throat remained unharmed despite the nod and despite his trembling.

"You're gonna tell the police that you were wrong and that Boris Chrushtchov killed this Norvtcharov, by order of Max Bolshoyov."

Charlie's heart nearly stopped beating. This guy was from the mafia! He knew about Norvtcharov! And if he demanded that Charlie come up with a wrong result regarding the murderer… perhaps he had a personal interest in a wrong result…?

"You're gonna say that you found that out with your maths and you will convince them this way. And we will know if you tell them something else. If you don't do what we tell you to you'll soon have more bodies. We know that you sent the old guy away, but no one escapes us for long. And if in doubt the agent's gonna kick the bucket. Got that?"

As if paralyzed, Charlie nodded.

"Very well. And not a word to anyone. You know who's gonna pay for your mistakes."

Before Charlie could form another idea, the hand above his mouth and the cold steel at his throat had disappeared, and two shadows disappeared into the dark of the night.

* * *

When Charlie sensed his knees trembling, he lowered himself to the floor and wrapped his arms around his legs. He didn't even have the force to carry himself to the old chair.

What had just happened?

There had been two of them, Charlie was fairly certain about that. And they had to be from the Russian mafia. Maybe they also had Norvtcharov's death on their conscience. That meant that they were unscrupulous. That meant that they would, if forced to, carry out their threat. Thank God Charlie's father was safe! And he _was_ safe, wasn't he?

Charlie's heart stopped beating for a moment. Then, it beat more violently and quicker. With trembling hands he drew his mobile from his pocket. If they knew that Alan wasn't here anymore, they might know where he was now and maybe they were afraid that Charlie wouldn't pay attention to their threats and maybe they had already been at Aunt Susann's an eternity ago...

Charlie's fingers were already on their way to the call button when he paused. He was upset. Surely his panic would be heard in his voice. That was assuming he'd be able to get out a word in the first place. And Alan would notice. He would first ask for the reason for Charlie's late call. He would know that something was wrong, he would get worried, would maybe return – and thereby play exactly into their hands!

Filled with the fright of what he he'd nearly done Charlie let the mobile fall, and the illumination of the display disappeared again. In the serenity of the darkness Charlie tried to control his breathing and to put his thoughts in order. No, it was nonsense. Alan couldn't be in danger; that didn't make sense. They probably didn't even know where he was. Otherwise they would've told him. Wouldn't they? Would they?

Charlie was close to tears. What should he do? Nothing made any sense. He just wasn't getting anywhere. Logic wasn't helping him here. He was completely lost. He had to tell someone, someone he could confide in, someone who could help him, but who?

Don. Of course. Why the hell had he taken so long to fish the right thought out of his upset mind?

Well, on the other hand it wasn't too much of a surprise. Considering how things were going or rather not going between the two brothers at the moment... _someone he could confide in..._ Could he really confide in Don? Would Don even listen to him?

Feelings that bounced between anger, desperation, defiance and endless sadness filled Charlie. Don _had to_ listen to him; it was important! But he knew that Don wouldn't listen, for Charlie wouldn't be able to tell him anything in the first place...

But maybe these guys would never find out...

Charlie shook his head energetically, as if in order to chase the thought away. No, he wouldn't risk it. He wouldn't put his father or his brother's lives at stake. His opponent was much too well organized for him to even consider such an idea. They already knew much too much, anyway: they knew that Charlie was working for the FBI again, even knew how much he had advanced with his work, knew about the thing that they had sent Alan to safety (_hopefully_ to safety), knew that Charlie would never risk endangering his family...

But where from? Where were they getting all this information from?

_Damn it._

An extremely unsettling thought had crossed Charlie's mind, and his breathing increased while his eyes were hastily scanning the dark garage. _Bugs!_ They must have planted some kind of listening device here, here in the garage, in the house or in the FBI headquarters. Charlie hadn't talked about their plans concerning Alan and about his work other than in these three places – and it was highly unlikely that anyone else had done so also. Anyway – that meant that they were eavesdropping on them, at least on him!

Charlie shuddered. How had these guys managed to do that? He was here, after all, he should have noticed something... But that was nonsense; after all it wasn't that he never left the house. Moreover, he had no idea when these bugs had been planted – if they were really there, and Charlie was becoming more and more certain with every passing second that they were there. Maybe – yes, certainly! - it had happened right after their escape from their prison in the mountains so they could spy on the progress of their work.

But... if these guys knew what they already knew... if Charlie obeyed them... then they would never be able to solve this whole case! Charlie had to tell somebody, some law enforcement would be best! However, what if they had also planted bugs in the FBI offices...

Charlie swallowed. No, he couldn't go to the FBI; the risk was just too high. And if they were shadowing him –

Good God! The thought hadn't even crossed his mind until now! Maybe these guys were lying in wait right now, watching every single move? Wildly Charlie looked around, too panicked to notice how senseless this move was. He felt coldness running down his spine. All of a sudden he again was the little boy sitting on the floor, afraid of the dark. Too afraid to even think about standing up and switching the light on.

But if he could go neither to the LAPD nor elsewhere – actually, it was crazy: he went in and out in all sorts of agencies and then when you needed them they weren't there! – then he would have to bring Don in whether he liked it or not. But surely Don would listen to him. Certainly... wouldn't he? But it was important, after all! It was about Don's life!

But no... Charlie couldn't go to Don. He couldn't tell him. These guys would find out. They had found out everything up to this point. If he didn't want them to cut Don's throat, he had to remain silent. He had to obey their order and hope that the mafia wouldn't become even more powerful and that Don thus wouldn't be in danger despite everything. However, if he told Don that Don was in danger, then Don was in danger!

Charlie shook his head. This whole thing made no sense! It was so illogical! How to know what to do if everything he could do was wrong?

_I have to go on_, his inner voice suddenly urged him, and Charlie was so programmed to obey every order at once that he sprang to his feet from his sitting position on the floor and hurried towards the board. Of course at once all the blood sank in his legs, and he had to lean against it until the feeling of vertigo was gone. He held his eyes closed during the process, and his thoughts inevitably jumped back towards the masked men. He shuddered. It was so unreal, it couldn't be...

But it was true and he had to do something.

It wasn't until he wanted to take a look at his previous work when he noticed that it was still dark. With nervous energy he stepped over to the door and switched on the ceiling-light. Even before it was completely on he stood in front of the board again or rather: he paced up and down in front of it. Adrenaline forced him to move constantly. He couldn't stand still. But he had to get on, he had to find out more...

Again he shuddered. It was so frightening how easily these guys had been able to assault him. They had come and gone and nobody had seen them. They'd been here for only a few minutes and although he still wasn't sure if he hadn't merely dreamed everything, he knew that he would never manage to forget those minutes. He still felt the knife against his throat, smelled the leather gloves, sensed the presence of someone unknown in every dark corner of the garage. He still heard their words, the threat to do something to hurt his brother or his father...

With his gaze empty Charlie stared at the board until it occurred to him that he had intended to go on working. _Concentrate_, he forced himself impatiently._ Come on, you have to think, you mustn't get distracted. You can't risk putting them in further danger..._

He wouldn't be able to bear it. He wouldn't be able to bear it if something happened to one of them, if they were hurt or even worse. He couldn't do that. And what if something happened to him because he hadn't obeyed the mafia's orders? Not only if something happened to them, but worse that it was his fault?

Aghast, Charlie staggered back a few steps until he bumped into the desk. He couldn't, he couldn't do that, he couldn't do that anymore.

He didn't know how much time had passed since his decision to discover the secret behind the organization, but finally it became clear to him that it was too much. He couldn't concentrate. His head was so empty, so full of fright and worry and panic that there was no room anymore for cool, calculating logic.

Again he felt his knees trembling and again he lowered himself to the floor. It was too much. He couldn't do this anymore. The first shock was over and it wasn't until now that he realized everything clearly and in every detail what had happened. He could no longer hold back the tears and during the first few minutes he didn't even try.

After a while he thought he'd built enough strength to drag himself to the house. He struggled to get to his feet and stumbled along to his bedroom. The journey seemed to last forever, as he expected to be assaulted every instant. In his bedroom, however, he was at the end of his tether. Dimly, he felt his shoes slip off his feet, but he didn't have the necessary energy anymore to get rid of his clothes. He simply threw himself on his bed and fell asleep while the tears in his eyes were slowly drying.


	19. Chapter 19

19 – NINETEEN – 1.168^19

It wasn't until Don entered the break-room that he noticed how long it had been since he'd been here. Although it was the fourth day he'd been back at work, it had never been necessary. Out of consideration for Don's foot his two co-workers had always brought something for him from the kitchen with them when they fetched something for themselves (and Don had become aware that they seemed to have arranged it, for they always went alternately and at regular intervals).

Don took his crutches in one hand, closed the door with the other and hobbled towards the coffee machine. As he took a cup from the cupboard, his gaze fell on the corner of the work surface and his hand came to a halt. There it was. The broken cup from exactly one week ago, before their abduction was still there. Don had completely forgotten that he had intended to repair it, just as he and Charlie had been able to repair their relationship. Or at least had thought they had been able to.

Since their last argument three days ago, they'd been completely incommunicado. Everything concerning the case was going through David and Colby. Don hadn't been in his childhood home since Tuesday since their unintentional fight on the kitchen floor. Neither had Charlie tried to come into contact with him (and lately didn't seem to spend his time in the house either, but rather in the garage). Via telephone, Alan had occasionally tried to force them to talk to each other, but they had both refused.

_But why?_ Don wondered. Why exactly were they keeping their distance from each other? And didn't they basically want the same? Okay, he wasn't that sure with Charlie anymore... but he himself knew exactly what he wanted.

Don thought. As long as Charlie hadn't found out something there was very little for them to do anyway, or to be exact, very little that could have helped them along. Since Charlie had told Colby via telephone the latest results they'd put out an APB for Boris Chrushtshov, the man that probably had Alex Norvtcharov's death to answer for. Until they'd found him, though, Don wouldn't be able to do anything (or at least anything important) except to wait.

On the spur of the moment he opened a drawer and took a small tube of liquid adhesive and sat down at the table. It was quite a dexterity-requiring action to put the two parts of the handle back at the cup, but finally Don had managed. So, it looked nearly as new. And it probably wouldn't be broken that easily anymore if it got dropped again. Furthermore, Don would make sure that it wouldn't fall again.

Once he'd got back to work he wondered how best he should proceed. Probably Charlie would be working when he got home. And since at this point of time his brother would probably have worked for several hours already, he surely wouldn't have anything against a little break, would he? Then he and Don could sit together and talk about the things they had been silent about in their argument. They would understand each other – okay, rather make that excuse each other, right, forgive him – and then everything would be all right again.

Don couldn't wait to get home.

0 – 0 – 0

Sometimes, Malenkov wondered why the boss bothered to talk at all. His gaze and his whole posture, his facial expressions told everyone what they had to do although at the same time no one could see behind the mask of this calm businessman.

Still, sometimes he spoke, even if not much. "So?"

"Everything went well," Malenkov reported truthfully. He even hadn't needed his second accomplice outside the garage, but you could never be too careful. "We assaulted him and forced him to finger Chrushtshov with his calculations. We continued monitoring the phone in his garage: he gave the cops his 'new findings'."

The boss nodded in satisfaction. At least something that had gone right here.

0 – 0 – 0

"Charlie? You there?"

Stupid question, of course he was there. At least in body. His mind, though, seemed to remain in the world of numbers even after Don had pushed open the door to the garage.

"...Charlie?" repeated Don carefully. He had to watch his steps; he couldn't pick a fight again.

Charlie still didn't seem to hear him, and Don came some steps nearer. He became aware of the half-full one-litre-water-bottle on the desk and the untouched banana. It rather looked like breakfast. But surely Charlie hadn't…?

"Charlie? How long have you been here?"

Don had sounded more sharply than he had intended to, but probably Charlie wouldn't hear him anyway. His brother was frowning, shaking his head slightly while he quietly murmured something to himself as though he wanted by no means to be disturbed. But at least he'd heard him. "Charlie –"

"Shut up!"

Don was so dumbfounded that he did indeed shut up. Damn, now what was going wrong this time? He hadn't wanted to argue! He hadn't even wanted to disturb his brother! He was just... Well. After all, Charlie couldn't go on brooding about the case forever. He would have expected his thoughts had to end sometime. Don would just wait.

He looked at the white chalk lines on the board without the slightest chance of understanding even a single line of it. He shook his head, smiling. He was really proud of his little brother. Charlie had already managed to do so much! He was a leading authority in the world of mathematics! And it was simply fascinating to see how much he could lose himself in this world full of numbers and formulae...

Don's smile faded. _If only he would just take a little more care of himself._

But after all, that was what he was there for. His gaze fell again onto the untouched banana which in all probability had been eking out its miserable existence since that morning, and all of a sudden serious doubts occurred to Don that Charlie might ever finish his thoughts – and that before he'd have starved to death. But then why was his brother so stubborn?

Carefully, Don again approached his 'in-another-world' absorbed brother and laid his hand softly from behind on his thin shoulder. The effect was immediate: Charlie flinched, uttered a low cry and whirled around.

"Hey, easy, buddy!" Don tried to calm him with his eyes open wide. His little brother's violent reaction had shocked him nearly as much as his brother had been shocked by the sudden touch.

Charlie was still breathing hard. "What is it?" he asked shortly after he had recovered from the fright.

"I just wanted..." Don fell silent. Why had he come here again? Ah yeah, yes... And what had he wanted to say? "Did you... have you eaten something today?"

Charlie looked at him grimly. "Is that your business?"

Why didn't it work? Why did Charlie all of a sudden hate him?

Don suddenly felt weak, though knowing at the same instant the he couldn't be weak as long as he had to take care of Charlie. And so he covered his despondency successfully with a mask of annoyance. "You have to eat, Charlie. And drink."

"Could you just stop moaning about me for once?" Charlie shouted and then suddenly started to sway.

The next instant Don had grabbed his upper-arms tightly. "Charlie? Everything alright?"

Charlie shook his head and Don didn't care if it was an answer to his question or an attempt to get rid of the vertigo, and he led him to the old chair in front of the desk.

"You alright?" Don asked once more.

"Yeah," came the short answer.

Don, however, decided to attach more significance to Charlie's looks than to his words. He opened the water bottle and offered it to Charlie who first stared at it and then at his brother. "Stop mothering me," he murmured, though he grabbed the bottle and took a large gulp.

"How long have you been here?" Don inquired although he wasn't sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

Charlie had turned his gaze back towards the boards, apparently having disappeared with half of his mind again into the world of numbers. "Since this morning."

"And since then you haven't eaten or drunk anything?" Don asked incredulously.

"I did drink something," Charlie answered, lifting – his gaze still on the board – the water bottle.

Don shook his head in bewilderment. "Well, then it's high time you took a break."

"No," said Charlie, standing. He only had eyes for the boards.

"Charlie, that wasn't a question!"

"It wasn't? Well, maybe no one told you, but not everyone has to dance to your tune. I don't take orders from you. I know quite well what I have to do."

"Well, evidently you don't!" Don retorted sharply, making an angry gesture, that went completely unnoticed by Charlie, towards what should have been Charlie's breakfast.

Charlie maintained his silence and it became too much for Don. "Come on," he said impatiently trying to pull Charlie outside, but his brother tore himself away with unusual violence.

"No! I have to continue this!"

"But you can't even think straight anymore!"

"Just because you've got the intellectual capacity of an ant doesn't mean that all of us are like you!"

_Ouch_. Charlie had hit home with this one. However, Don was trying – he really was! – not to show how exactly he knew how proud his parents were of their talented youngest son. "Okay, I admit! I'm no genius like you, but in return I know at least when my body needs nourishment! Mum and Dad didn't always to mother _me_!"

"Oh come on, be quiet! Can't you just leave me alone for once?"

Don heard how Charlie's voice nearly cracked and how his own didn't sound much better.

"Oh right, I'm sorry! Next time I'll wait till you're dead of thirst!"

"I didn't have time for it, okay?"

"The case is important to all of us, Charlie! But you have to know where to stop!"

"You have no idea!" There were tears of anger and desperation and exhaustion in Charlie's eyes. "Just let me do my work and leave!"

Don inhaled deeply. He was trembling with irritation, but he had to maintain a clear head – or rather get it back. Something was wrong here. It wasn't unusual for Charlie to lose himself in his work, but his violent reactions to every well-meant word were far from normal.

"What's going on here, Charlie?"

Also Charlie was breathing heavily and seemed to be slowly calming down again. "Nothing. Just let me get on here."

"But... just take a little break, okay? A quarter of an hour to eat something, that's all I'm asking of you."

The feelings were becoming deeper and Charlie's voice was rising again. "I – can't – do that. Please, just listen, I... I _can't_."

And there it was again, the desperation in Charlie's eyes. The thing that squelched Don's anger. "What's going on, Charlie?" he repeated much more soothingly than before while he took a few steps towards his brother. "Tell me."

"It's... it's nothing."

"Come on. You can tell me anything."

Charlie lifted his head and looked into Don's velvet-like eyes for a long time. "I... I can't." Did Charlie's voice tremble? Yes, no doubt. And not only the voice was trembling, but also the hand that – more scrawny than usual – scribbled two words on the board.

_Not here_.

"I... I can't do this anymore."

Charlie had lowered his hand so that it was now loosely hanging by his side and himself onto the chair. Don stared at the words and a feeling of horror began to spread inside him slowly rising up into his throat. Something had gone wrong here, horribly wrong. He didn't want to imagine what it was – and at the moment he didn't have the opportunity to do so.

The brother stayed in the background for the time being and the FBI-agent in Don took charge of the situation. "Do you... do you want to take a break after all?" Did his voice always sound that hollow when the federal agent was in charge?

Don saw Charlie nod weakly. His voice also sounded hollow. "Yeah... yeah. That'd probably be the best thing to do."

"Okay, so... let's get out of this stuffy garage first of all."

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. I'm... not making any progress here anyway."

Don watched as his brother Charlie stood more wearily than he'd even seen him before. He wiped the 'Not here' away with one hand and dragged himself outside. Don followed him and they went down the street in silence until they reached a little park and lowered themselves onto a bench.

0 – 0 – 0

"So the others assaulted the mathematician?" the boss repeated. With his sharp gaze he looked into his two subordinates' alert eyes.

"Yes," confirmed Rurik Petrov. "Yesterday evening. Though we don't know exactly what they did to him. In any case he went back to the house some minutes later."

"So he wasn't badly hurt," the boss deduced. But then why would they have hurt him? For just like themselves the others knew plenty of ways to convince people to do what they wanted. "He's still being kept under surveillance?"

Sasha Andrushov nodded. "He can't move without us noticing."

0 – 0 – 0

"What's going on?" Don asked his question for the third time.

Charlie looked around nervously. Since they had left the garage his remaining energy seemed to have transformed into obvious nervousness. He still had doubts whether he was doing the right thing, but then it was a fact that he couldn't bear everything much longer. Without realizing it the words had already stumbled out of his mouth, "They want me to sabotage the investigations."

Don stared at him. "What?"

Charlie looked him insistently in his eyes his own filled with fear. It was this gaze that made Don feel that something was really rotten here. "They wanted me to tell you that Boris Chrushtchov killed Norvtcharov."

"Hang on... wait a sec – who is 'they'?"

But Charlie's silent, desperate look was enough of an answer.

Don swallowed. His head suddenly seemed empty and his stomach fuller. All of a sudden he had a terrible fear for his little brother. "Charlie, if you do what they tell you, then you're endangering yourself even more! If you give us wrong information, then we can't arrest the real criminals! You _mustn't _do what they tell you to, you hear me?"

"But... but I _have to_, Don! They…"

Don, however, grabbed his thin shoulders, cutting him off. "I know that these guys are scary! But we... we can put you under protection, you hear me? We've got safe houses … "

This time it was Charlie who interrupted his brother. "But it's not me who's in danger! It's you! It's dad and you they want... they'll do something to you if I don't do what they tell me to!"

For some seconds, Don was dumbfounded. Speech returned only slowly. "Wh-what? Y... you're not serious, are you?" he stammered. These bastards had threatened his little brother with killing his family? Heavens...! Thank God they had managed to get Alan out of the firing line. At least –

"What about dad," Don wanted to know.

"He's fine. I talked to him this morning."

"Good..."

However, Charlie evidently didn't seem to share his opinion. "They forbad me to tell anyone, Don! What if they... if they somehow get to know about this? They know everything! _Everything!_ Don, I... I don't know what to do anymore!"

Don's heart felt it was tearing apart. Charlie was so desperate... "We... we'll manage somehow," he tried to calm his little brother laying his arm around his shoulders. He leaned his forehead against Charlie's. "I won't let you down."

The low volume didn't diminish the comforting tone of Don's words. It hurt his soul to see his brother suffering like this and it was clear that he would help him. The only question was how?

"Okay... now once more... straight from the beginning." Listening would also provide him with some time to think. "What exactly happened?"

Charlie inhaled, trembling. He had told Don. He couldn't change anything about that now. That meant that he had chosen the get-yourself-out-of-the-hole-by-your-big-brother card. In general a good choice. However, Don was right, he now absolutely needed all the information in order to act correctly and prevent the worst.

After he had run them over his face, Charlie used his hands to support his head. He had a headache and he was tired: after many hours in front of his boards in his stuffy garage he was finding it hard to concentrate. But the adrenaline that had also caused the panic helped him to maintain a clear head. He now only had to think about where to start.

"I think they planted bugs," he finally began. "The mafia. Probably in the garage. I haven't looked for them yet, I can't destroy them anyway, they would notice. They know that we've sent dad to a safe place, but they don't know where he is. And we've spoken about aunt Susann only in the house."

Don looked at his little brother earnestly, though trying to let his voice stay free of much too rational dark suspicion. "Charlie – if they know that we've sent dad to somewhere safe it's only a matter of time until they'll find aunt Susann."

Charlie shook his head. He had thought about all that more than Don could probably imagine. "Aunt Susann lives at the other end of the country, in another state. And she was married. These guys would have to do a lot in order to get her address."

Don breathed deeply. It was good to know that at least their father wasn't in the mobster's firing line.

"And above that... Don, I think they're watching me. There's this dark car in front of our house and all the time..." Charlie fell silent, looking around jumpily. No one in earshot that he could see, thank God.

He was much too occupied trying to get back his composure to notice Don's shocked features. _A dark car in front of the house?_

"With the bugs they must have heard that we've found this second mafia group," Charlie continued, still trembling slightly. "Probably one of the parties wanted to take advantage of this situation by denouncing the other one. Boris Chrushtchov is a member of the big mafia, therefore I guess that the guys that were in the garage last night belong to the branch-mafia."

"Wait a sec," Don managed to utter, breathing deeply. The awesome amount of information surmounted him. Now slowly, in his mind he put it in the right order.

* * *

A sub-organization had split off from the local Russian Mafia. However, both groups had the same aim – whatever this aim might be. Now, one of these two groups had one of their agent's death to answer for, Alex Norvtcharov's. They had kidnapped his brother and himself probably in order to prevent them from working further on the case and also to deflect the other investigators' attention away from this great aim.

At some point of time they must have planted the bugs in the garage so that they could keep Charlie's progress and thus the whole progress of the investigation under surveillance. And now they had assaulted Charlie, probably the sub-mafia, in order to blame the big mafia so that the sub-mafia could work without disturbance and see their aim through. But did that mean that the sub-mafia was behind Norvtcharov's death? No... no, not inevitably. They just could have wanted to be left alone.

Just like Don did.

What did these mobsters want from his little brother?

And how on Earth was he supposed to prevent them from getting their way?

* * *

"Okay." Don swallowed hard. "Okay. First of all we have to take you out of the firing line."

"Wh-? No, Don, we've already covered that! I will _not_ just leave!"

Don couldn't believe how stubbornly Charlie was acting. "Charlie, now listen closely, _there is NO way that you're staying here_, did you get that? Maybe I gave way last time, but not this time! These mobsters are gunning especially after you and I won't let it happen. I won't let you endanger yourself any further! I want you to be safe!"

Charlie had hardly listened to his words, so much did his own thoughts occupy his mind. He had only paid attention to the weak points in Don's argument. Everything else was marginal and inefficient. "These mobsters aren't especially after me, I'm only a means to an end for them to misdirect you! But that won't work, don't you see? As long as I'm still there and they think I'm still playing their game you'll know what's going on!"

"Charlie, trust me, we've got other means and ways to find out what they're playing at. And far better ones than making a lure out of you."

Charlie inhaled deeply. He didn't want to get angry, but Don just didn't understand what was at stake here. He, Charlie, had already become a part of the equation; he couldn't withdraw that easily, even if he had wanted to.

"Don, even if I wanted to go to Baltimore – it won't work! The mafia will watch my steps closely enough to notice if I leave town, and if they do so they'll find out where dad is staying, so he'll also be in danger, and maybe also aunt Susann. They won't allow me to simply escape; after all they need me to give you wrong information. Trust me, it's best if I stay."

Don shook his head silently. He knew that he couldn't agree with Charlie, but his head was still so occupied with the large amount of information that no appropriate argument came to his mind. He had to clear his mind so that he could think.

He rubbed his forehead. "What does that mean, you're supposed to be giving us wrong information?"

"They ordered me to prove Chrushtchov's guilt with my network analysis. I've –" Charlie swallowed. It wasn't easy for him to admit that, he had really done it; that for an instant he had indeed seriously thought about it. "I faked the analysis to make it look as if Chrushtchov is Norvtcharov's murderer although he still belongs to the big mafia and is subordinate to Max Bolshoyov – it looks as if Bolshoyov is the boss of the big mafia –"

"Does that mean that you really... that you really meant to do what they told you and were going to deceive us? When you told Colby on the phone that Chrushtchov was the murderer you lied to him?" Don neither knew if he had understood it correctly or if he didn't want to understand. The more they had to do with the mafia, the less his brother seemed to bother about unimportant values like honesty.

Charlie bowed his head, and Don could read his silent answer. Though Charlie couldn't resist the urge to defend himself. "I wanted to make sure that the mafia believe they control me. But at the same time I've been trying to find out what their real aim is and what's going on there. Don, I... I just want these guys to finally disappear."

"You wanted to find out on your own what's going on there?"

"I – I'm sorry, I wanted... I just didn't want them to hurt you and I didn't know what to do and – and I couldn't –"

"Hey," Don interrupted his little brother's stammered words, placing his arm that had left its place during the discussion back around his shoulders. Whatever might be standing between them right now – he couldn't deny that once more, he was quite impressed by Charlie's behavior. "Hey, Charlie, that's... You should've told me right away."

Charlie bowed his head even further and Don continued, "But I think it was unbelievably brave of you to continue despite of everything."

Charlie's head jerked upwards, and hope was gleaming in his eyes while he tried to decipher his big brother's gaze. Don had taken him in his arms and at the same time was taking him for being brave – what exactly was the problem after all?


	20. Chapter 20

I just thought this might be a good moment to say another thanks to my beta Starfishyeti who's helping me a lot with everything that concerns the English language. Thank you so much!

* * *

20 – CHAPTER TWENTY – 1.162²°

"Did you... have you already found out something?"

Charlie scrutinized his brother with a hint of mistrust. Don's arm was still lying around his shoulders, but all of a sudden the younger Eppes wasn't that sure anymore if this gesture meant protection or imprisonment.

"Do you really want to know?"

For God's sake, Charlie could really ask silly questions! Don wasn't sure if he was going to want to know.

Don's arm left his brother's shoulders when he needed it to hold his head. None of this made sense; nothing was right, there was no correct solution. So how was he supposed to make a decision?

"You've already found out, haven't you?" he asked the mathematician for verification, sounding exhausted. Making decisions wasn't that easy anymore, especially as he was finding it difficult to gather together his racing thoughts. on top of that it wasn't when one wasn't convinced of the result of his hurried considering thoughts. "So, just tell me."

Charlie swallowed. "It isn't really much," he confessed. "I've been... I was a bit distracted every now and then."

_Who's surprised_? Don thought bitterly.

"But as I said," Charlie continued, "Max Bolshoyov seems to be the big mafia's boss, and Dimitrij Kalinkov the branch-mafia's. I've got no proof for that; it's just a pattern. Maybe I've been on the wrong track all along, I don't know... At present I don't even know if I'm only imagining all the connections."

Solemnly, Don looked at his brother. Oh no, he didn't like this at all. He held his lips closed tightly while wondering about how to treat Charlie. The big brother instinct was fighting for supremacy, though it didn't know what to do and so had to give control to the federal agent. "What else?" Don asked further, his gaze nonetheless worried. "What about this Chrushtchov? Who is this guy?"

"It seems he belongs to the main mafia. Upper middle-class, one of Bolshoyov's confidantes. Your case files say that he's likely to be involved in quite a lot of big affairs, but that you could never put anything on him, as is usually the case with the mafia."

"So the guys that assaulted you were from the sub-mafia."

"I guess. They wanted to weaken Bolshoyov, maybe Kalinkov is taking it personally that –"

"Hang on, Kalinkov is the boss of the sub-mafia?"

Charlie nodded. "Exactly. Maybe he's taking it personally that Bolshoyov's big mafia shifted the blame onto him, or rather that this paid witness did so, this José Sanchez. In any case that doesn't necessarily mean that –"

"That a member of the sub-mafia killed Norvtcharov, I know."

They were silent for a moment, finding it difficult to get back into conversation.

In the end Don started anew at exactly the point were he always seemed to stop. "Listen, Charlie, I really don't want you to continue here. This thing's getting too dangerous."

Charlie sighed heavily, a more or less successful attempt to control the impatience and anger that dominated his emotions. "I know that. But these guys can control me. If I don't do what they tell me you and dad will have to pay for it."

"Dad is safe; they'll never find him at aunt Susann's –"

"But _you_ aren't safe!"

For some moments Don didn't know what to say. He only looked into his brother's eyes; eyes that were wide with desperation and panic. Did his brother... did Charlie really mean that seriously? Was he really so much worried for Don that he preferred being threatened by the mafia to leaving him and his work back here?

Don was glad that he was already sitting, because all of a sudden he felt quite rotten. His brain was hot, he felt dizzy, and there was a huge mess in his stomach. Nonetheless, in a strange way he felt splendid.

"Charlie – I... nothing will happen to me. I'm with the FBI. Heavens, I've really been in more dangerous situations before."

_Great_, Charlie thought sarcastically. _That's really going to calm me down_. However, instead of exposing his weakness in front of his brother, Charlie concentrated on the logical error in Don's words. "That means that this thing here isn't as dangerous as you claim?"

"It is dangerous for _you_!"

"Now come on, Don, you were younger than I am when you started at the FBI –"

"But I've also been better trained!"

Charlie remained insistent. "I'm not that inexperienced either if you remember."

Don would have preferred to answer with a 'no'; in his current state of mind his brother didn't need to make allusions to his potentially dangerous secret missions on top of everything else.

Don felt trapped. If he forbade Charlie to stay they would again argue and in the end Charlie would get his way after all, whether he had Don's approval or not. Now if he allowed his brother to stay he himself would be responsible if something happened to him. He would be the one who would have to look in his father's eyes, confessing his own blame.

_Stop that immediately._

Don had become sick. He didn't want to, he didn't want to imagine what could happen to Charlie. After all, why did he make such a thing about it? Charlie was here, safe and sound, he was fine, the mafia hadn't done anything to him...

But it was the mafia...

Don sighed, his breath trembling slightly. He hated speaking the following words out loud, and he hated himself that he did it. He had had to make a decision, though. "Okay. So stay here. Go on working on the case. But I want you under protection. After the assault we've got more than enough to justify it."

It was this thought that made seem everything almost bearable to Don. In a sick way the mafia's terrorization of his brother had had a positive effect.

However, Charlie contradicted his big brother again. "It can't be, Don. They'd notice."

Don stared at him, struggling for composure. "Are you trying to tell me that you want to stay here without any protection?"

Although he'd already guessed it, his brother's answer nearly blew Don off his feet.

"Yes."

When Charlie saw Don's expression, however, he let himself be carried away with a few more words. "Don, it's really better this way. In general we don't have any other possibilities. Just stop worrying. Nothing will happen to me, for sure."

It was again like in the dining room after their fight in the kitchen – déjà-vu. Back then, Don had decided to shun his brother, and they both had suffered from the situation; Charlie maybe as much as himself due to the mafia's assault that maybe he'd contributed to by staying away from the Craftsman. And had it done any good? Charlie had been assaulted and was being threatened, and Don would have had to lie to claim that he didn't feel guilty. Maybe the right decision was this that he would try to cope with the situation although this was far more difficult than fighting it.

"Okay," Don's voice was rough and hoarse as if the words didn't even want to leave his mouth, and he had to clear his throat. "If you really don't want to understand, then stay." Don noticed that his voice sounded unmistakably bitter, and he tried to cushion its effect with a smile. "I don't want to hear any complaints afterward, though."

He managed the smile only halfway. Don knew it because it was mirrored on his brother's face. "Likewise. I too don't want to hear any complaints when you're once more offended because I solved the case nearly on my own."

"Are we having an arrogant day today?"

Charlie's smile grew a little bit more genuine. Of course he was very aware that his consulting activity was only one amongst many tools the FBI used. However, admitting that would mean having to renounce on the currently so rare fun. "Maybe you are," he retorted, "but that wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary."

"Take good care of what you're saying," Don warned him, grinning, while with Charlie's half-heartedly resisting he ruffled his hair. "I'm still the eldest."

"Which means that you're really old. Old and frail and..."

"Old and _wise_. And still much stronger than you."

Charlie laughed indignantly. "No way! You're –"

He abruptly fell silent, his eyes widening. Within a second the atmosphere changed. Don followed his brother's fixed gaze, but couldn't detect anything worrying. There were still people strolling around in the park, most of them unknown; he knew some few of them from the neighborhood.

"What's up," he asked in a low voice while his eyes were still searching the place in front of them.

Charlie swallowed. "I thought... I thought that guy over there with the sunglasses... that he was one of the mobsters that kidnapped us. But I think... now I don't think he's it."

With a sharp gaze Don scrutinized a group of men some dozens of meters away. He knew who Charlie was talking about, but he too was quite sure that his brother had been wrong. And not only his brother. If Charlie was still that easily ruffled… maybe that meant that Don had made the wrong decision after all?

But then Don would maybe have to remove himself from the case.

They stood after a while and returned to their childhood home. Don laid his arm again around Charlie's shoulders. The simple gesture and the closeness to his little brother meant so much to him; he had to realize that, having missed it desperately during the latest couple of days.

In reality, they hadn't been that close for each other for a long time and not at all in former times. It was true that their relationship had improved during the last few years, however, after the end of Charlie's consulting career and the ado about the security clearance everything had seemed to be destroyed. Now it seemed the bond between them had grown even stronger perhaps due to the secret they now shared. They were sworn to each other and no one could harm them as long as they stuck together. Not even a bunch of mobsters.

The worries, however, didn't let themselves be banished. Don still wasn't sure if he had made the right decision, and would certainly continue to doubt it until they'd closed the case. If only he could make sure that his brother was safe...

"You've still got the firearm I got you, don't you?"

Charlie answered in the affirmative with an extreme lack of enthusiasm. Back then it hadn't been an easy task for Don to convince him of the necessity of an arm under his roof. Then one day Don had simply turned up in the Craftsman with the thing as if he brought them a weapon every day. In reality Charlie knew that he shouldn't have been surprised. Even high school kids could get such junk within a day, and after all Don was a federal agent. Nonetheless he had never wanted the thing in his home.

"I want you to keep it in your bedroom, so you can get it at any time. Of course it'd be better if you got yourself a license and carried it with you the whole time –"

"Forget it."

Don had expected that. And somehow he preferred his little brother walking through L.A. unarmed. "The main thing is that you're protected at home." He considered briefly. "Should I –" He fell silent and considered the matter a bit longer. After their most current arguments his proposal appeared to him pretty stupid. And still. "Should I come and live with you for a while?"

Charlie lifted his eyebrows briefly before he drew his gaze away again. "You've not been there recently."

_Ouch._ Could his brother maybe pay more attention next time to what he uttered so carelessly? _You've not been there recently_ – what was that supposed to mean? Did Charlie feel himself let down?

Don answered the question for himself: his brother had recently been assaulted by the mafia – nothing had happened to him, physically, okay, but who said that the mafia wouldn't go further? After all his big brother hadn't shown up at the Craftsman for days. And had Charlie called him after it had happened?

_Why not_...?

The desire to care for his little brother and to make up for everything became so strong inside Don that he would nearly have done anything. But then what could he do if Charlie still wanted to maintain his distance from him? At least he could make sure that Charlie would be able to take care of himself... and maybe reminding him of who he had to thank for that. "If needed, the weapon is always there and available for you."

His brother's moan showed Don that he had said exactly the wrong thing. Don was really annoying Charlie. Could he just not stop reminding him of the damned thing?

"What?" Don asked again when Charlie stuck to an irritable silence.

The silence lasted another couple of seconds while Charlie wondered what he should say. How was he supposed to explain his brother that he in reality also would have preferred to have the weapon out of his house?

"Did you know that a weapon kept at home is thirty-three times more likely to be used to shoot someone you know rather than a complete stranger?"

Statistics. His brother was really telling statistics to him. "I know a lot of my enemies, too."

Charlie, annoyed, moaned and drew himself away from under his big brother's arm. "You just don't want to understand, do you?"

"I'm just channeling you in this matter." Don noticed that his words sounded cynical, but hell, he couldn't take anymore! Charlie was going to drive him mad if he continued this way! Had he really come to the Craftsman to see him again?

If that only hadn't been a mistake.

Shortly afterward, they arrived back at their childhood home. In the late evening sun the old building radiated a dignity that made it nearly seem a bit cold. Loveless. Hadn't they grown up here? Wasn't this their home?

Not for the first time Charlie wished that their father was here. Alan had the remarkable talent of making his sons reach an agreement without too many words. And with their current arguments they needed his talent more than ever.

Maybe it would have been easier for them if their nerves hadn't been so tense that they were close to tearing apart. They were on permanent stand-by, and also their home had lost its attributes of comfort and safety. It was here that they had been abducted last Friday, a week ago from today, and it was here that the mafia had attacked them again to intimidate Charlie. Who could assure them that these criminals wouldn't intrude at any moment and hold their weapons against their temples?

Don just wanted to propose to his brother to move out for a couple of days. However, they could never be sure if they were being watched or overheard by the mafia or not. And it was clear as well that the mafia didn't want Charlie out if its reach and that they would intervene if necessary.

"Are you sure that I shouldn't stay here?"

Charlie, still disgruntled and annoyed and tired and exhausted, hesitantly and morosely lifted his head. Don seemed to be serious. And to be honest he currently was really not looking forward to staying in this big house all on his own. The simplicity with which the mobsters had already gained entrance to his home twice now still made him shudder.

He swallowed. "If you want to," he mumbled, hoping vehemently that Don would not change his mind and prefer his apartment. Already immediately it occurred to him how silly his conduct was. Of course Don would prefer his apartment; Charlie himself wouldn't act any differently. A small, anonymous flat in the city or a huge, house full of nooks and crannies far away from any kind of police departments? The choice wasn't difficult.

"Okay, I'm staying tonight," Don decided brusquely, and Charlie nearly broke his neck; so fast did his head jerk sideways.

"Seriously? You don't mind?" He hesitated. It was so difficult. He just didn't know how to treat Don at the moment. The ever-changing highs and lows from deep disapproval and complete unity were nearly making him sick. Finally, however, he gave in to the feeling of solidarity and confided in his big brother, "I don't believe that I'll be able to be at ease here in the foreseeable future. But if you feel differently about that..."

Don grinned wryly. "You don't seriously believe that I'll be able to be at ease _anywhere_ as long as these guys are out there, do you?"


	21. Chapter 21

21 – CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – 1.156^21

Don came down the stairs and felt an irrational relief when he saw Charlie going to make coffee. They had managed not to argue more the day before, and at least Don hoped that it would stay this way. However, because of the permanent mental and emotional tension he couldn't guarantee anything.

"Good morning!" Charlie greeted him, apparently a lot more awake than he had been the previous evening. "I take it you too want a cup of coffee?"

Don nodded, watching his brother carefully noting what lay behind his cheerful greeting. More awake - yes. Rested - yes. In a good mood, as though everything was all right - yes. However, there was also increased insecurity in the way they interacted, a fear that at any moment a new argument could emerge between them. There was the apprehension of the mafia's everlasting threat and the ghosts of panic and tension destroyed the peace picture with their brutal truth.

"Listen, I've been thinking about what you said yesterday."

Charlie tried to grin. "You probably shouldn't have done that."

Don too had to make a great effort to pull the corners of his mouth up a bit. Charlie was right. He had found that out for himself already. However, that was secondary for the time being. "You shouldn't go on working here."

"Don." Charlie's features were an open book. They had gotten rid of that matter only with a huge effort and he was determined not bring it up again.

And on top of that, he shared Don's opinion. "No, wait, listen. I mean, you shouldn't go on working here in the garage. It'd be better if you went to CalSci. You know, more people and all that." _And probably no bugs_, he added in his mind.

_Ah yes._ Charlie nodded. That sounded rational. For the time being he wouldn't be able to think straight and panic-free in the garage, not only because of the always changing dark cars in front of their house he had been trying to ignore since the night assault.

Half an hour later Don dropped his little brother off at the 'thank God' already well-filled campus and drove on to his office in his SUV. He felt a surge of gratitude welling up inside him when he saw David and Colby already sitting at their desks. Without any words they seemed to a community that was totally in sync. The two of them seemed nearly as determined as him to put the mobsters behind bars, and if he hadn't already made up his mind, his decision to tell them everything would have been made at this moment.

He hadn't needed to think long the previous evening in order to come to the conclusion that it'd be best to let his two colleagues in on the turn their case had taken. Of course, the risk that their plans could be overheard by the mafia became greater this way; but it also increased their chance of catching the criminals. And aside from that, David and Colby deserved to be in the know.

He led them into the conference room that he was absolutely certain was not bugged. Their tense and expectant features assured him that he had their attention, and so he started his report. Despite the impact his information had he was only rarely interrupted by a question now and then. The two agents waited until their boss had ended before they told him what they thought. They even waited a few seconds longer, but Don was quite sure that this was due to the fact that they were dumbstruck.

"This is bad," David said finally. "This is really bad."

"That's the conclusion we've come to as well."

"And what do you intend to do now?" Colby asked.

Don shrugged. _If we only knew._

"Have you already organized protection for Charlie?" David wanted to know.

Don shook his head, but before he could reply, Colby broke in, "What? You left him alone? With the mafia going after him?" What, for Heaven's sake, was going on with Don?

David's features, in the meantime, had cleared up with comprehension. "We can't," he verbalized his fear. "The mafia's watching him. We can't be seen to be protecting him."

Don nodded heavily. "Exactly. It sounds weird, but it's safer this way."

Colby leaned back in his office chair in order to come to terms with the information. After all, he didn't know that it would get even worse.

0 – 0 – 0

"What about Sanchez?" Kalinkov wanted to know.

"He's stalling," Budanov answered. "We can't get through to him, though. Seems as if the others are also putting pressure on him so that he doesn't change his statement. And they're keeping him from us."

Kalinkov let out a discontented sigh. It was annoying to know that the FBI was on their tracks. Annoying, yes – but there were more important things. "And the mathematician? Is he still on our side? And did the FBI find out despite everything what we're planning and how we intend to proceed?"

Budanov shook his head. "As far as we know, no."

Kalinkov's unsatisfied features didn't change. Not as far as they knew – but their source of information wasn't infallible, after all. Bugs in a remodeled garage – that was more than poor.

"We should watch him," he therefore said. "24/7. To see what the enemy's doing."

"But this math-guy can't leave anyway. One, we can trace his mobile at any time and two, he wouldn't dare."

"Still," Kalinkov insisted. "We mustn't take the risk. This math-guy has to stay under our control. And we have to find out what they already know."

0 – 0 – 0

Charlie was standing in front of the blackboards in his garage calculating, when suddenly the door opened. The movement was so soft that he didn't even notice at first, but when he felt the mouth of the pistol against his head, he became instantly aware. Charlie sensed his heartbeat quicken when a deep voice whispered, "Say good-bye to the world!" A shot banged and Charlie started up.

Gasping heavily, he found himself sitting in an office illuminated by morning sunlight. His head jerked around, his eyes moved rapidly and he recognized the desk and the shelves and the chaos as belonging to Larry's office. Slowly the panic subsided again. He had only been dreaming. No shot. The bang hadn't come from a pistol, but more than likely from a slammed door.

Charlie swallowed and sat up straight. His joints cracked and he stretched. Yes, that made him feel better, even if his tensed up body probably wouldn't forget that night soon – or more to the point the hours spent on Larry's office chair.

It probably would have been more sensible to drive home for a few hours of sleep but one, Charlie wasn't sure if he would find the rest he was hoping for in the Craftsman, and two, he had had to continue working on this. After all, he had (with Larry's approval) worked here all day yesterday, but hadn't been able to finish his work and at some point in time had apparently fallen asleep. However, he was so close to the solution, he could almost taste it.

His gaze fell upon the calendar upon Larry's desk. Sunday. It had to be Sunday. Good. Larry wasn't back from his conference until this evening, and most of the students would probably also stay away from the university today. So hopefully he wouldn't be interrupted by anyone. He had a lot to do.

Charlie squinted, looking closely at his latest calculations. Right, there it was he had stopped. That meant... yes, he was really close, he knew it. And without wasting any more time, he went on calculating.

Only a few hours later he saw the solution in front of him. He quickly verified the last few steps, but there was no doubt. He had worked out the mafia's aim. For at least a minute he stood motionless in front of his calculations until he pulled himself out of his zone and stumbled out of the building.

0 – 0 – 0

Sasha Andrushov was yawning. Not for the first time he wondered who had had this idiotic idea. Observing a mathematician – what on Earth was the point of that? Until now in any event, it hadn't helped them at all.

Now their mark was leaving the university. A glance between him and his colleague Ilya Ivanov was enough; then Ivanov got up from the passenger's seat and out of the car while Andrushov followed the mathematician and his blue small car. Judging from the professor's confused and somehow far-away features when he had left the campus, he was still unaware of the fact that he was being followed.

Meanwhile Ivanov had already asked a student for Professor Charles Eppes' office and received a discouraging answer. "Professor Eppes doesn't currently teach here. Unfortunately. Didn't you hear about it? Was quite a big thing. But if it's important you can try Fleinhardt's office, second floor, uh... third door on the right."

The student hurried along, and Ivanov contentedly set off. It was no coincidence that he had been given this task. Not only had he studied computing for some semesters before having been taken off the university register, but he also looked younger than the 28 years he was and resembled a student.

He knocked at Professor Fleinhardt's door, but got no answer. Good. It was child's play to pick the lock. Finally, he stood in front of Eppes' notes and studied them closely for a long moment. Then he swore softly. They were exposed; their aim was revealed. And now they had to act as soon as possible.

With his cell-phone, he called for back-up. And he informed the boss.

0 – 0 – 0

"Hey, Charlie! Did you find something?" David lifted himself from his chair when the professor had rushed past him.

Charlie turned around. He hadn't even noticed David. He didn't slow down his quick pace, however. "You could say so," he mumbled.

"Hey, you alright?" David asked. He was frowning. Charlie didn't look well... a bit out of it. However, David thought at once, that after being kidnapped, assaulted and perhaps being permanently watched that was probably quite understandable.

"Where are the others?" Charlie inquired without answering David's question. He was still trying to understand the result, to grasp it. David silently indicated an interrogation room. Through a windowpane they saw the two agents and a woman stand up, shake hands before the woman finally rushed past them.

"Hi Charlie," Don greeted him. "Got something?"

Charlie nodded.

"Good," Colby said, one corner of his mouth lifted up, "'cause I'm really getting fed up with these witness statements."

Charlie just stared at him solemnly, but Don was already leading them into an empty conference room. "So?" he asked while Charlie opened his laptop. "Have you found out who killed Norvtcharov?"

"What?" Charlie seemed confused. "Ah right, that... Yeah... uh, seems as if it was a certain Pjotr Malenkov, a member of the sub-mafia. I have to verify it, however, that's not what I'm here for."

"But?"

And finally Charlie could let it out. "It's the Janus List."

The three agents stared at him. "What?" David finally asked.

"Their aim is the Janus List," Charlie repeated. He had difficulty expressing it clearly. "The mafia. They want the List. I still don't know how they intend getting it, but the probability is 83% that it is the aim of the two groups."

His gaze was resting upon Colby, but out of the corner of his eye he could see that Don's and David's heads were also slowly, as in a trance, turning towards their colleague. The reason was obvious. Not more than a year had passed since they had all thought that Colby was with the Chinese and a traitor, not only a traitor to his country, but also to the FBI and – last but not least – to his friends.

Back then, an ex-spy and cryptographer named Taylor Ashby had given them – via obscure channels – the Janus List. And on this Janus List they had found Colby's name. After the apparent betrayal by their friend and colleague they had all gotten more or less off course. It hadn't helped either that Colby had escaped. Not at first. After his escape however, they had finally been able to clear up the issue, and they'd found out that Colby wasn't a double, but a triple agent and was therefore on their side. That didn't mean, though, that after the clearing up of the case everything had been all right again. It had taken them a long time to build up a basis of trust again and to forget about the whole thing as well as possible.

And now it had caught up with them again.

Charlie saw Colby swallow. "But there is no Janus List anymore," he then said, frowning.

Charlie's voice was calm. It only trembled slightly from excitement. "There's a new one."

The others stared at him. "How do you know?" Colby asked, not comprehending.

"I don't know certainly," Charlie confessed, and the others exchanged meaningful, though still uncertain glances with I-knew-it-features before he continued his explanation. "But I know at least that there was one some weeks ago."

Their glances switched back into confusion-mode.

Charlie shrugged. "I was working on something else when I found out about it." He tried to smile. "You have access to quite a lot of pretty interesting high security information when you have the proper clearance."

The others were silent for another couple of seconds, trying to take in the meaning of Charlie's words.

"And how do they intend to get it?" Don finally asked, recognizing unwillingly that his voice sounded a bit hoarse. It was inconceivable – this stupid Janus List was evoking all the memories and feelings from the first episode. Colby's betrayal... Don's doubts about everything and everyone...

"That's what I said; I don't really know yet which way they're going to chose. I have to make another game theory analysis."

Colby sat up with a jerk. "Hold on!" Considering the dumbness of the situation that had been there until now his voice sounded disturbingly sharp. "What's that supposed to mean, 'which way'? Are you saying that there are several methods they could use to get the List?"

It couldn't have been more obvious that Colby was aghast. After all he himself had been on this List once, even if it had only been for the sake of his cover, but the fact that people could get those names so easily – no, he just couldn't understand that.

Charlie, however, didn't do him the favor of denying everything, but just nodded as an answer to Colby's indignant question.

"And," David hesitated for a moment, "where is this List supposed to be?"

Charlie didn't answer, but just looked at David in a way that Don knew only too well. "No," he said, trying to convince himself. His little brother wasn't telling them that right now. "No, Charlie, you can't be serious."

Charlie's gaze swiveled to Don, though it didn't change. "You're not seriously telling us that…?" However, Charlie's gaze confirmed his theory. "You know where the List is and can't tell us?"

Charlie lowered his eyes and that was enough of an answer for Don.

He stood up abruptly, turning away from the others, only to turn back two seconds later in order to appeal to Charlie's common sense. "Charlie, this is important! If you know who has the List..." He left the rest unsaid.

"I don't know who has it," Charlie eventually said. "I only know which... agency has got information about it."

Don inhaled deeply. "Okay." Inhale another time. Just don't get irritated. They were as close to their aim as they had never been and his own brother was blocking their path, but – hey! – it was nothing. "Okay." He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Thinking was so hard at the moment. "So could at least anyone of you ascertain that this time _none of us_ is on this damn List?"

"Of course not," David hastened to say.

Colby's answer came nearly at the same instant, though it was much more cynical. "Do you seriously believe that I'm agreeing to go through all that again?"

Don took another deep breath, this time mostly caused by relief, but as he was nearly expecting, Charlie also destroyed this. "Uh, Don – a spy wouldn't necessarily admit that he's a spy."

That was followed by another few moments of silence. Don and David stared at him, but Colby only examined the desk in front of him. "He has a point there," he consented in a barely audible voice.

Don whirled around. "What are you trying to say there, Granger?"

"Stay calm, Don. I wasn't lying to you. But there is no convincing argument for you to believe that."

The silence that was now dominating the room was oppressing. Reverberating. Don stared at Colby as if he was the first human being he had ever seen. What was that supposed to mean? Was Colby just trying to tell him in a very cryptic way that he was again a spy; that he was again lying to them?

Don studied the angular face. He noticed the dark rings under the eyes, and he remembered that Colby – just like himself – had worked extra hours these past few days in order to bring the mafia behind bars.

Or was he just pursuing his own aims?

His gaze was still pointed. Colby didn't look at him, but that didn't necessarily mean that he was lying to him. No, it didn't. And the accentuated cheekbones, the sign that he was clenching his teeth – tension or memories? And if Don knew that – would that help him?

Don sighed. "All right," he said. He still wasn't sure if he was signing his own death sentence right now or dooming their plan – as awfully little thought out it was at this point of time. But he knew what to do. "I guess we're all in the same boat. We all haven't got the necessary means to find out if one of us is a spy or not. But I, for my part, trust you."

He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment. And his colleagues understood. They were aware of how much Don's words meant in this case.

"Okay," Don continued, much more neutral and back to his old commanding tone. "Then let's go. David, Colby – I want you to try to track down further members of the two mafia groups so that we can question them and maybe find out something about their plans. Charlie – you'll try the same thing, find out how they intend to get the List and what exactly they want to do with it."

Charlie nodded briefly and left the headquarters. Don looked after him for a moment. He inhaled deeply. He still hadn't come to terms with the fact that Charlie was withholding such important information from him, but that wasn't everything. The fact that it was suddenly so normal again to give orders to his brother and to see them being followed without argument made him a little uneasy.

0 – 0 – 0

While opening Larry's office door he knew immediately that something wasn't right. And it wasn't until he was already standing inside the room that it occurred to him that it should normally have been locked Had he maybe forgotten about that earlier in his excitement? Perfectly possible.

Charlie had also covered the few steps to the desk when he realized that there was something else that wasn't right. For although it always took some time with low-energy bulbs, experience told him that the room was taking too long to light up.

All of a sudden the darkness meant danger. Was there somebody here? The mafia...?

The next instant, Charlie scolded himself for his paranoia. Probably the bulb had blown. Or he hadn't pressed the light switch properly. Or...

Charlie didn't have the opportunity to think of further theories, for at this moment he was pulled hard from behind, an arm around his throat. His bag banged onto the floor and a sharply sweet-smelling cloth was pressed over his face.

Only twenty seconds after Charlie had entered the office, he was lying on the floor unconscious.


	22. Chapter 22

Sorry for the delay, I was quite busy these last couple of weeks… But thanks for the review! And I hope the spelling of your name doesn't have any further meaning and that you're not angry with me for taking my time… :)

Anyway, here's the chapter and I hope you all like it! Warning: there are some allusions to 4-01 Trust Metric.

22 – CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – 1,151²²

Ilya Ivanov put the cloth he had soaked with diethyl ether back into his jacket and helped his accomplice to get the professor out of the office. Fortunately, it was Sunday, and there was nobody here at this time. And luckily there hadn't been any incidents when they had waited for Eppes' arrival in Fleinhardt's office, though they had been prepared for any contingency. They could feel the reassuring weight of the two Berettas in the inner pockets of their dark jackets.

Taking the shortest way, they got the limp, but fortunately slim body out of the building and into their van. Pyotr Raskolnitov, the second man involved in this act tied and gagged their hostage, and the little van disappeared unseen into the night.

0 – 0 – 0

Don shook his head, partly because he wanted to shake off his lethargy. After Charlie had left, three hours of file rummaging had passed and everything had calmed down a bit in the head-quarters. Lost in thought, he played around with the cover of a folder. After all... if you looked at it thoroughly... Considered soberly, Colby wasn't even on the list anymore. They no longer actually had anything to do with this whole thing. There was no conflict of interest.

After all, there had only been this little abduction and the intimidation.

No, if there was a new list, then it hadn't got anything to do with the old one and the consequences and emotions it engendered. As long as Colby, and no one else he knew, was on this list, they would be able to work on this case like any other case.

The problem was that Don couldn't be certain. He wanted to trust Colby; he would have entrusted his life to him, and if you looked at it thoroughly, he always did whenever they were on an operation. This however, was something else. Here, he had no control. If Granger intended to take him in Don would probably not notice until it was too late.

It had nearly been too late once already. Time had almost run out on them. And Colby had nearly paid the ultimate price. His betrayal – had it really been a betrayal? It was so difficult to decide – had nearly robbed him of his life if David and Don in particular and the team in general, hadn't been in time to save it.

A shudder ran down Don's spine when once more he realized what would have happened if he had gone on refusing to trust Colby.

Irritated, he threw the file on the desk. The matter was done, once and for all. This whole what-would-have-been-if… seriously got on his nerves.

But then why did it still feel so strange?

0 – 0 – 0

Charlie awoke at the irregular, jolting movement. He felt sick. Oh God, when would it finally stop? And more importantly, where was he? On a ship? That would at least explain why he was feeling seasick.

He was thirsty. His mouth was dry – no, not only that, more, his tongue felt strangely furry.

Charlie wanted to touch his head, but something held him back. He couldn't move his arms. He wondered dimly where his limbs were; if they were still there somewhere. He couldn't feel them, not really at any rate. His whole body felt strangely numb.

Before he could think about it further, he was pressed against a wall and then straight after on the floor again. _Centripetal force!_ it suddenly flashed through his mind. That meant that there was a force somewhere that made him change his direction of movement, namely because he was in a vehicle going round a bend.

That was it! He was travelling – not on a ship, but in a car! And that nearly impossibly bearable rustling around him was traffic noise! The question was only: how had he come here?

Charlie groaned. The headache and the dizziness and the nausea were killing him. How on Earth had he come to be in this damn situation? Had he drunk too much? But that still wouldn't explain –

Oh, damn it.

He hadn't drunk too much – he had been drugged! By the mafia!

Charlie groaned again, but this time it sounded a trace more desperate. This new perspective explained a lot, for example the numbness in his arms and legs. He was tied up; that was why he couldn't move. Or the furry feeling on his tongue – a gag. He had been abducted – and for the second time in nine days. That wasn't only statistically extremely unlikely, it was also anything but good for his health and not only because of the stress.

The car turned around another bend and Charlie could feel his stomach turn. That had to be the narcotic. Maybe chloroform?

However, when the van braked sharply Charlie didn't care anymore. Lying on the floor and vomiting the previous day's meal into his prison after having got rid of the gag rubbing his face along his shoulder, he only hoped that he got as much as possible of it out of his system.

0 – 0 – 0

Ilya Ivanov glanced at his watch and yawned. His colleague Pyotr Raskolnitov gave him a quick look from the driver's seat.

"Be careful that you won't fall asleep later when you hide him away," he admonished him.

Ivanov waved him off. "I'll have a little nap here in the car."

So he did. It had been a long day for him. First the observation, then the discovery that their aim, the Janus List, had been discovered... He had had to act quickly, but he was satisfied with the result. The abduction had passed off smoothly and he also knew already exactly how they would proceed. The Boss would be content with him.

0 – 0 – 0

Don noticed the shadow over him and looked up. "So?" he asked David. "Were you able to find Sanchez?"

David, though, shook his head. "Nothing. He seems to have gone underground."

"Which isn't very surprising," Colby piped as he suddenly came up behind his partner. "I guess this sub-mafia is now also putting pressure on him so that he changes his statement and doesn't incriminate Kalinkov anymore."

"To be added to the pressure of the main mafia," Don continued thoughtfully. No, indeed it wasn't a surprise.

"Why did they buy Sanchez in the first place?" David asked.

Don shrugged. "To distract us, I guess. They wanted to divert our attention towards the branch-mafia so that they can go after their aim without any interference. 'Cause that way they'd have got rid of both their opponents as well as their rivals."

"And so they can get hold of the Janus List without having to do much," David concluded. A bit too late he noticed what he had said there, and the three of them stared at the ground before David plucked up enough courage. If they continued to hush it up for much longer, they would probably really come to a dismal end because of it. "What do they intend to do with it, anyway?"

Colby gave him a glance that was difficult to decipher. "Are you serious? On this list, there are names of double agents, David. People who are betraying the U.S. With this list they can do nearly everything. They can make the agents that are on it work for them, they can blackmail the respective governments, they can sell it to the U.S. government or –" He hesitated for an instant before he continued. "Or they can sell the list to countries that are ill-disposed to the USA."

"That'd be bad," David mumbled.

They fell silent for several seconds before David spoke again, "Couldn't we find out at least what the mafia intends to do with it?"

Don shrugged. Yeah, it'd be quite nice to know that. Maybe Charlie would be able to find out with his... with some of his analysis? It's true he thought that his brother had told them everything he knew, but it was worth a try after all. "I'll ask Charlie."

0 – 0 – 0

Charlie didn't know how much time had passed until the van came again to a halt and the engine was turned off. At the violent jerk he again felt the nausea rising up inside him, but he tried to suppress the reflex. And although the carrying out of his plan was made harder due to the smell of vomit in the sticky air around him, he managed this time.

The door to the cargo bay was opened and a new wave welled up inside Charlie: a wave of panic. And it was probably this wave of panic that made him shudder and not the cool night air.

"Ah, you're awake," a voice with a Russian accent greeted him. However, in the wan light of the street lamp Charlie couldn't detect from which one of the three silhouettes in front of his eyes it had come.

One of the shadows separated itself from the others and came towards him. Charlie became rigid when he felt the rough hands on his skin checking his bonds and putting the gag back into his mouth.

"Chorosho," said the voice that was so close to him. "A teper', shto my delayem c yemu? Ubit'?"

Afraid, Charlie lifted his head. His neck hurt, but he couldn't help but stare at the silhouette. If he didn't understand what they were saying he wanted at least to try and deduce from their gestures what they were talking about.

One of the other two shadows shook his head lightly. "Nyet. Shef govorit shto on zaloshnik." It was again the first voice, calm and controlled, at any rate calmer than the one of the impatient mobster above him.

"Itak, shto?" this impatient one now said, turning towards his accomplices.

"Dyrà."

A brief silence during which the one spoken to nodded lightly. "Da... da, erto priyatnava ideya."

The men fell silent for a short instance, but Charlie's eyes remained widened. What had these guys been saying? What had they been talking about? About him? About their plans? Maybe they had just now decided how they would kill him?

Charlie's widened eyes might have disturbed the three men, at any rate the impatient one, who was still standing above him, took a cloth from the pocket of his jacket and bound it over his hostage's eyes. "Tak lutshe," he mumbled.

The last thing Charlie had been able to see or rather guess at in the dim light was the mobster's sardonic grin. Then he heard him jump from the van onto the street.

"Nu, choroscho, Paka!" a voice that hadn't spoken until now called out. Steps were moving away.

"Paka!" the others answered. They seemed to be saying good-bye to each other.

As well as to Charlie. The sliding door was banged shut and he was alone again.

Cold fear was creeping up inside of him. He was alone with two mobsters. He didn't know what they intended to do with him. And no one knew where he was. These guys were unscrupulous. And he had irritated them. He had mixed up their plans. And the way things were looking right now – that is pitch-black, in the proper sense of the word – he wouldn't be able to get free on his own.

He needed help. Urgently. He wanted to get away from here. Somebody had to help him.

Where was Don?

0 – 0 – 0

Don was frowning. There was no one in Larry's office in CalSci nor at the Craftsman answering the phone. And also on Charlie's mobile Don had only been able to reach the message service.

"What's up?" David wanted to know when he saw Don sitting there rigidly on his office chair, brows knit and the phone at his ear.

Don shook his head, though still held the receiver to his ear while he spoke. "I don't know. But I know I don't like it." He hung up with a jolt and stood. "I'm going home to look if he's still hanging around in the garage."

"Shall I come with you?" Colby offered.

Don looked at him. He considered, but finally shook his head. "No... but you and David, could you two go to CalSci and look if he's maybe there?" He swallowed, trying a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Just to be sure."

Cobly and David nodded. Although their boss had tried to put on a brave face, they hadn't missed his worry.

0 – 0 – 0

Again the car came to a halt. Again the engine was turned off. This time, however, the sensations were different. He didn't see the sliding door opening, he heard it. He didn't see the shadows coming nearer, he heard them. More distinct than before he could feel the breath of air coming from the open door and the men moving around him. Without sight the feeling of menace increased greatly.

He felt two hands grabbing his feet, cutting through the bonds. Charlie wondered only briefly why these guys had bothered to bind his feet in the first place before his attention was already diverted to another aspect in this dark horror theater.

"Get up," a rough voice above him ordered, and hands grabbed him at his shoulders, pulling him upright. Charlie tried to stand, but his legs, his whole body, was too worn-out from the hours he'd been lying tied up on the floor of the van. Completely blind, he was pulled up again onto his feet.

Hands pushed and dragged him out of the van. Since he couldn't see the step, he tumbled down, but fortunately rough hands prevented him from going down to the ground.

The hands dragged him away from the vehicle, to the left, and Charlie stumbled through a black world. He didn't know where he was, had no clue from his surroundings. But he _had to_ know where he was; this disorientation was making him crazy, the blindness...

He could hear water. He could hear. He had other means of getting his bearings. He could hear water roaring. Waves. And he could smell salt water. He had to be at the ocean.

He listened intensely to see if he could hear anything else besides the sea to his left. Yeah... yeah, there was something. Traffic noise. A street. Though the noise sounded strangely muffled and far away. Maybe there were trees standing between him and the road. Or an embankment. A dyke?

With his other senses sharpened, Charlie could now also sense the wind. It came from the right, from the street, from the land. _Great_, he thought. So it was still – or again? – night. That meant it was dark. Why couldn't these guys commit their crimes in daylight for once?

Charlie was dragged on. The ground changed; he was walking on sand. Here, walking was more difficult, and he stumbled more often. Therefore he was quite glad when after half an eternity the ground finally changed again.

Stone. He had had to duck before he could feel the stony floor under his feet. Now all their steps sounded hollowly; they had to be in a cave. It couldn't be big, though; otherwise the echo effect would have been stronger.

The strange procession came to a halt. Charlie could hear a scratch and a squeak that made goose bumps run over his body. He knew this sound...

Again he was grabbed hard from behind and pushed along. "Now jump!" a voice directly next to him then ordered.

Charlie stood motionless.

"I told you to jump!"

The barrel of a weapon was pressed between his shoulder blades, and unable to resist, his right foot slid a few inches forwards. His body tensed. His toes were hanging free in the air. Underneath them there was no ground.

"Now come on!" It was enough for the impatient voice. A kick to the backs of his knees was enough. Charlie screamed and fell down the abyss into a black nothingness.

0 – 0 – 0

Don had arrived at the Craftsman, only to find the garage dark, when he got a call on his mobile. David. "Is he with you?"

"You should come over, Don."

Don's alertness increased for two further steps. "What's happened?"

"You should come over," David repeated.

Since Don's breath had accelerated anyway, his sub-consciousness decided to let it go easy, and he hung up without a further word.

While he, maybe a bit too speedily, drove to CalSci in his SUV, all sorts of possible and impossible, but all of them unpleasant, thoughts crept into his mind. What was going on with his brother? Why hadn't David told him anything? Maybe they had found him in his office, bound and gagged? Or on the floor, in a pool of blood, de-

Don's throat was dry out, but not so the corners of his eyes. He could feel the panic welling up more and more inside him. _What's happened...?_

Later, he had no memory of sprinting up the stairs until he finally stood in front of Larry's office, breathless for more than one reason.

David and Colby turned around at the sound, coming towards him. "We didn't touch anything," David told him.

Don pushed past the two of them into the office, coming to an abrupt stop. He was standing in front of chaos. So, everything seemed to be normal.

Except for Charlie's half-open bag on the floor.

And the knocked-over chair in the middle of the room.

And the light sweet smell in the air.

And the unmistakable fact that Charlie wasn't here.

What the hell had happened here?

* * *

Sorry for the Russian, especially to those who tried to understand it… As you realized, I'm not really able to speak the language.


	23. Chapter 23

Thanks a lot to those who read and reviewed and made me so happy by their remarks! 

23 – CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE – 1,146²³

Charlie crashed hard on the floor. His right leg buckled hitting the floor first and Charlie knew instantly that it hadn't done him any good. He screamed with pain. He wasn't sure, but he thought he'd heard something crack, and the hell his kneecap was giving him strengthened his suspicion. At least the pain distracted him from the bruises he had gotten in his fall, though that was only cold comfort.

While he was lying on the ground, panting heavily, he could hear a bang beside him. No human being, no. Some item, probably of plastic or synthetic material. He hadn't fallen far, judging from the sounds maybe five meters up there above him. It had been enough, though, to do some damage.

Before Charlie's brain managed to come to terms with the pain enough to start a verbal protest, he could already hear the rubbing of metal against stone that sounded like a closing separating him from the world out there for good. In a very unpleasant way Charlie was reminded of his latest dungeon adventure. However, at that time Don had been with him. And his situation hadn't been that hopeless.

Hopeless was the right word. And this blindfold was making him crazy. He had lost any kind of orientation. And the dizziness wasn't really helping him either. The darkness was absolute. With his forearms and fingertips and the cheek he was lying upon he could only guess that he was lying on cold, relatively smooth stone.

Charlie fought the dizziness enough so that he could sit up. He had to scream even with that little movement. The pain in his knee was devilish. He clenched his teeth, but it didn't help much. Seemed as if he had broken his kneecap.

As soon as he sat more or less upright a new surge of nausea welled up inside him and he waited until it had calmed down before he took another step towards freeing himself. He was anxious to see how far he could get.

Ignoring for now the dizziness and the nausea, Charlie dragged his bound hands under his body and in front of him. He couldn't turn off the pain though. He held his eyes closed tightly, but still single tears found their way out of them.

Again the dizziness came over him, but he tried to distract himself from it and from his knee by trying to feel with his lips what he was bound with. The material was thinner than the last time he'd been kidnapped, much thinner, and Charlie hoped desperately that it was also less tear proof, for there was no way he would be able to loosen the knot this time, not without help and not with this thin thread.

A strong thread. They had used a strong thread twisted of several thinner threads, Charlie was quite sure. He knew the material from his mother's sewing-box. And he remembered exactly how she had liked to use the thread to sew buttons onto clothes. Because it was so strong.

With increasing desperation, Charlie moaned. He wanted to lay his head back, but he regretted the decision at once, as nearly in the same instant his head made very rough contact with the wall behind him. Once more he was annoyed about the fact that he couldn't see anything, until it finally occurred to him that he could now rectify this deplorable state of affairs. With his hands in front of his body it was child's play to pull the blindfold from his head.

It was of no use, however. At first he thought that he might still have his eyes closed, but after some seconds he was sure that this was not the case. It was still pitch-black in here. As much as Charlie could detect, there wasn't the slightest ray of light coming into his dungeon.

As a next step Charlie tried to get rid of the gag, though his attempt remained without success. The rough cloth was knotted in his neck and he couldn't get to it. So first the hands.

Carefully, Charlie turned towards the wall he was leaning against in the darkness and felt it. Yes, stone. Smooth for the most part, but here and there he could also find a rougher parts.

Filled with new hope, Charlie lifted his hands to the roughest spot he could find and rubbed the thread over the stone. He paused briefly as his wrists were burning; he had scraped them. However, he soon started again. Grazed wrists were really his tiniest problem at the moment.

0 – 0 – 0

With desperate fury Don kicked against Larry's desk. David and Colby started. He kicked it once more before whirling around abruptly towards his co-workers. "Where is he?" he asked, reproach audible in his voice. "What happened here?" He knew that it was neither the fault of the two of them nor were they able to answer his questions. But damn it, someone, _anyone_ had to be able to help him!

He ran both his hands over his face. _Damn it. Damn it. Damn it._ What should he do now, what was he supposed to do... abduction... it was probably an abduction they were dealing with...

"Forensics", Don ordered. "I want forensics here, immediately." His voice sounded steady, even if the chaos in his mind made it difficult for him not only to express himself clearly, but also to do the right thing.

David, sensing how his boss was at a loss, stepped into the corridor cell phone at his ear.

In the strange state between numbness and the sharpening of all his senses, Don could sense Colby's penetrating gaze from his side. So Colby was expecting further orders from him. Don had to give him further orders. He had to settle this mess here. He was responsible. He had let it happen that far and now he also had to make it right again.

"Damn it!"

Larry's desk was unfortunately the recipient of another one of Don's kicks, harder this time. He had known it! Damn, he had known that Charlie should have left right from the beginning!

"Hey, Don." Colby fell silent and bit his lower lip. He had wanted to ask, 'You alright?', though considering Don's current obvious state of mind the question would have sounded like sarcasm. Instead he tried to put as much optimism as possible in his words saying, "We're gonna find him."

Don stared at him. What the hell was Colby doing there? Was he trying to console him? Don swallowed, then tried to answer calmly, "I know, Granger. And now you are going to look for witnesses and interrogate them, alright?"

A bit surprised, Colby nodded. He could understand Don's tenseness; the thing he couldn't understand was why Don was mad at him. However, that of course didn't prevent him from following his orders.

Don watched him leave, breathing shakily. _We're gonna find him..._

Of course they were going to find him! Why had Colby said something like that? He didn't need to say it; it was self-evident! To verbalize it meant to query it! _Why did Colby do something like that?_ Did he think he had to cheer his boss up? But he didn't have to! Don could handle this on his own! He would do his job, as always, and there was no doubt that they were going to find Charlie; there _couldn't_ be any doubt!

0 – 0 – 0

With a relieving rip Charlie's bonds were torn. For some seconds he wasn't sure if he'd really done it, but despite the feeling of numbness he could sense that his wrists had gotten a bit more space to move. He tried to pull his hands away from each other, but the burning sensation of pain stopped him from doing so and instead he tentatively felt for the end of the yarn with his lips. When he had found it, he took it between his teeth and carefully unwound the thread.

His wrists stung devilishly and also the hands themselves were extremely uncomfortably tingly so that he had some difficulty in taking off the gag. But Charlie didn't have time to worry about such obstacles. He first had to find how to get out of his prison as quickly as possible.

"Help!" he shouted with little hope. "Help!" He waited for some seconds, but nothing happened. It would really have been just too great (and his kidnappers just too stupid) if his cries for help managed to produce the result he was hoping for. He had to be in some sort of cave, even worse, _a hole in the floor of_ a cave. Very improbable that any human being could hear him down here. Maybe if he had a megaphone. Or some other instrument to make himself be heard –

Charlie hit himself against his forehead. He was so stupid! Why hadn't he thought of that at once?

With nervous movements he checked his pockets. It had to be somewhere here, he always had it on him...

Hopeless. His mobile was gone. And not only his mobile, _everything_ was gone; his keys, his wallet, even the notepad and the pen from the breast pocket of his jacket. The mobsters must have taken the things from him while he had been unconscious.

He should have thought of that, Charlie admonished himself. These guys were professional enough that they wouldn't leave his mobile with him when they wanted to be sure he couldn't get out of their grasp.

A sudden shudder ran through him. It was true these guys were professionals. They were experienced in kidnapping, in torturing, in killing. They wouldn't allow themselves to make any mistakes. And who knew what they wanted from him? He had to get out of here, out, out...

His breathing accelerated while he tried to make out something, anything in the dark. But he could see nothing. He couldn't see anything, he couldn't hear anything; he was sitting somewhere in nothingness, unable to perform any kind of manoeuvre that could bring him out of here. And he couldn't inform anyone, no help...

_I'm going to die in here_, the thought crossed Charlie's mind. _No one will find me, they'll –_

Images of his father, of his brother suddenly drifted in front of his mind's eye. They would never see him again... his father...

It couldn't be, damn it! He had to be strong now, had to hold out. They would find him eventually. Don would find him. For sure.

_Calm down again_,Charlie admonished himself. _Stay quiet. Don't panic now. Calm down._ And indeed his breathing regulated again. The short panic attack passed nearly as quickly as it had come. _Well, fine. Take a deep breath._ So he tried the next possibility.

He struggled to push himself up against the wall and stood – with difficulty due to being able to use only the knee on his left leg – and at once the blood sank in his legs. He held on to the wall, but since the feeling didn't fade he squatted again on the floor. He examined his surroundings by crawling as best as he could, carefully paying attention that he neither moved his right knee much nor that it touched anything.

The first thing he found was the plastic bottle. Judging from its weight and from its changing center of gravity it contained a liquid. It had to be the item his kidnappers had thrown down after him.

Charlie carefully unscrewed the lid and smelled at the opening. Odorless. He briefly weighed up his possibilities, then shook a few drops from the bottle, just enough to moisten his tongue. Water. He sighed, trembling with relief. At least it seemed as if his kidnappers didn't plan to make him die of thirst. It couldn't be more than a liter, but nevertheless Charlie felt a disproportional amount of gratitude welling up inside him that he nearly cried.

He breathed deeply and screwed the lid on again. His throat was burning and the nauseating taste of the narcotic still didn't let go of him, but he didn't know how long he would have to hold out in here and knew he should conserve his resources.

He painfully crawled inch by inch and he quickly became aware that his dungeon was tiny. He first put out his hands to see if he could stretch himself out. Both the width and length of his prison were too short for that; he estimated the walls to be about one meter thirty each; That meant that the space was only about one point seven square meters. And he was lying on a square. That didn't lack a certain irony.

Some minutes later Charlie carefully stood again, and it was a bit better this time. He was still quite dizzy, had a headache, and the nausea was going to kill him, but he tried to suppress the sensations by keeping his mind busy.

And his body. As soon as he stood, he searched the walls with his hands. When he stretched out his arms, he could feel both sides of his hollow cube. He tried to do the same upwards. There, the wall ran the same way as in the lower part of this stone cube, partly smooth, partly rough, and very vertical. And it ran high. For as much as Charlie stretched – he couldn't reach the ceiling.

This time things were really looking bad for him.

0 – 0 – 0

"Why... what's going on here?"

Don whirled around. The unit that had come to secure the evidence had just arrived and he had, rather unnecessarily, given them their orders. However, they didn't seem to be the only group that had just arrived, for as Don turned around upon the question, he saw Larry approaching his office, his forehead lined in a frown. And Larry wasn't alone.

"Don! What happened?"

But Don just stared at the two newcomers. He had opened his mouth in order to stammer an answer and to explain something he didn't even comprehend himself, but no word would come out. At least not fast enough to have answered before Megan's second question. Who now seemed to have a vague suspicion of what had happened.

"Where is Charlie?"

Don swallowed while Megan took another step forward, glancing past him into Larry's office that was currently being examined. "I don't know," he then said. His voice sounded hoarse. He didn't know, didn't comprehend anything. It was too much, everything was just too much...

"Don, what's going on here?" Megan's voice sounded more urgent now. At the same time she gently laid a hand upon her former boss's shoulder.

Don inhaled deeply. _Just stay calm. Don't panic. Be professional. _"He hasn't answered his mobile. And neither the telephone at home nor here at the office." Slowly, gradually the professionalism slid away from him. Damn it, after all this was about his little brother... "And when we got here, the chair was knocked over and his bag on the floor and... Megan, they've got him! They've kidnapped him!"

Somewhere in his sub-consciousness, Don realized that Larry had gone pale, and grotesquely his own panic seemed to lessen by seeing it. He had to maintain a clear head. He had to regain control of the events...

"The mafia?" whispered Megan and it wasn't until now that Don realized that she didn't know anything about what had been going on, that theoretically she wasn't even here.

He nodded silently. "They kidnapped us once already and shortly afterwards assaulted him in his garage. And he... he believed he was being observed or eavesdropped, maybe... even... both..."

Don's voice faded away when the terrible truth hit him. Oh God, why for heaven's sake hadn't he recognized the danger earlier? Everything had been laid in front of him so openly!

"Don, don't worry, we'll fix this. We'll –"

Not Megan, too. _"I know that we'll fix this!" _Don yelled with growing frustration.

She stared at him, a bit like Colby had some minutes earlier. Colby who'd been acting so strangely since they had found out the thing with the Janus List, with whom nothing was right anymore. And now nothing was right anymore _at all_... Evidence was being gathered at half past one in Larry's office and people were here that weren't supposed to be here...

"What are you doing here after all?" It was an impassioned attempt to put his brain at least halfway back into order. Why weren't things the way they were supposed to be?

He hardly listened to Megan while his eyes sprang from one point in the office to another as if he hoped to find any hint as to Charlie's whereabouts. "I came with Larry when he flew back from his conference in Washington; after all he told me about your problems with the mafia, and I took a few days off to see if I could help you somehow. We wanted to quickly drop off some documents from the conference and Larry said he wanted to see Charlie and offer him his help once more..." She swallowed. "Do you have any suspects?"

Don stared at her with vacant eyes. Did Megan just want to torture him? Of course they knew that it was the mafia that was behind this whole thing! But did she seriously believe that he could give her concrete names?

He shook his head with growing desperation, running his hand over his face again. Megan understood that it'd be better to leave Don alone now, but there was still one question she couldn't stop asking, "Have you told Alan?"

There it was again, this staring gaze, as if she had asked whether he didn't prefer to leave Charlie with the mobsters. He inhaled deeply. "Megan – no. I... I'll call him as soon as we know anything more precise." He could tell from her look that she was going to argue, but he couldn't stand it any longer. "Please, just let it be for a moment."

And without deigning to look at her, he strode down the dark, deserted corridor.


	24. Chapter 24

24 – CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – 1,142^24

Charlie was lying curled up. It had bothered him for only a short time that he wasn't able to stretch himself at length. By now, this option seemed so absurd to him anyway, that he preferred not even thinking about it.

His knee prickled and ached uncomfortably. With every further minute of pain the suspicion that he'd broken his kneecap grew stronger. Though after a tentative, but nevertheless painful attempt, he had stopped examining it.

He was cold. The stony floor wasn't only cool, but also humid and Charlie's clothes were already partly soaked. They stuck to his damp skin and his goose-pimples.

His teeth chattered. The sound echoed around the space, but it didn't really disturb him since it banished the roaring silence. A little while ago he had tried to keep himself warm by moving, but had abandoned this attempt very soon. The drug seemed to be still in his body and made him feel as miserable as he'd never felt before. Besides, he would waste energy through moving. And it would be better if he didn't ask himself when they would next give him nourishment.

He felt wretched. He had still a terrible head-ache, he was feeling sick, he was cold; his wrists and forearms were burning from the string and from rubbing them against the rough stone. And he was filled with fear. Naked, un-heroic fear.

And then the darkness! It was going to drive him mad! He might as well be blind, he wouldn't even notice. The darkness was so omnipresent and there was no way to escape it.

Time passed in a very queer way. It was crawling along so impossibly slowly that Charlie wondered if it was standing still, if maybe space had finally contracted and thus the past was catching up with the future right now. Or vice versa?

And yet, despite this apparent standstill, he was losing time. It disappeared, escaped through some holes that were hidden from him to the outside, and suddenly wasn't there anymore. He couldn't remember having experienced anything during these periods of time, let alone be able to tell what he had done in such passed minutes. Maybe slept? Impossible.

Possible, for it would explain why the water startled him so much. The fact that he hadn't noticed straight away was startling enough in itself though.

At first he became aware of the splashing. Then the fine spray on his skin and the roaring of the sea. It was louder than when they had thrown him down here. The sea had come nearer; it was high tide.

It took a while for Charlie to realize the truth. Now he understood where the spray on his skin was coming from: from above. Through the skylight. The water was obviously sweeping over it and some of it was getting through the chinks down to him.

All of a sudden Charlie was wide awake. That was why everything in here was so humid! It had to be the water that regularly swept down here. The question was only: how much water?

0 – 0 – 0

The next morning, Don sat motionlessly in his office. He had ordered that all calls, both the ones to the Craftsman and in his apartment, were redirected here. He had ordered a trace on Charlie's mobile by its GPS signal, but it had been of no use. Charlie's mobile was turned off.

He heard a bizarrely, strangely familiar sound and lifted his head. Megan. Megan had just arrived, just like before. However, the visitor's pass around her neck gave her a strangely strong resemblance to Charlie, at least in Don's blurry thoughts.

She stood for a moment in front of him, scrutinizing his appearance before she dared speaking, "Have you slept since we last saw each other?"

He ran his hands over his face and that might have been enough of an answer for Megan. How could she have asked anyway? As if he had been able to sleep. And besides, there had been more important things to do, even if they hadn't made any progress even after Megan had left them at half past four in the morning. They first had gone through the branch-mafia's members they knew of. They'd tried to localize them, had checked alibis... They'd found nothing, though. Of course it was theoretically possible that the big mafia was behind it, but the branch-mafia was more likely. After all they'd already had Charlie terrorized.

He knew that Megan's next question would be one about his father and he knew as well that at that moment he couldn't stand such a terrible interrogation by her. So he went for a counter attack. "Where's Larry?"

"Talking with Amita."

Don nodded. He had postponed as far as he could before informing Amita, hoping that the subject would have sorted itself out. And surprisingly, it had. He just wasn't sure if Larry was such a good choice for carrying out this task. For of course it hadn't escaped him how shocked his brother's friend for many years had been in the past night.

"They're at the CalSci?" He was completely calm. An idea had just occurred to him, but he wasn't sure himself what he should make of it.

"Yes," Megan answered, "why do you ask?"

Don didn't respond at once. He first let the idea go through his mind once more. Charlie had constructed a network for them, showing the organization's structure and the aims or the plans of the different people, right? So couldn't they...

"Don?"

He looked into Megan's worried features with its slightly raised eyebrows. "I just thought that the two of them could maybe find out something for us. Charlie," – he stopped briefly; it hurt him to pronounce his brother's name – "Charlie created a network of the two mafia groups for us. He found out their aims and everything... And maybe we could get from that who's kidnapped him."

Megan looked at him earnestly. "Yes, that's a possibility," she answered, but all of a sudden the tone of her voice was much cooler. When Don didn't respond to her provocative tone, she went on, "But has it already occurred to you that may place the two of them in danger?"

Don looked at the floor, embarrassed. He didn't answer. He didn't believe that Megan would be very delighted if she had heard that the idea had indeed already occurred to him.

She didn't need to hear it, though. "I can ask them," she offered, her voice already a bit warmer. After all she knew that Don was only thinking about getting his brother back safe and sound. "But I'd suggest that you provide surveillance for them –" Don laughed briefly and she corrected her proposal, "They can work in here."

Don nodded, not even noticing her saying good-bye as she left for CalSci. Yeah... the two of them could work here. Charlie could also have worked here. They could have connected some additional computers, maybe even given him his own room... they would have managed somehow. And if Charlie had been working here – under Don's and numerous other agents' eyes – then all that would probably never have happened...

"Don?"

Don jerked up at the sound of Colby's voice, immediately alert.

"What?"

"We've got a witness, a student. Seems as if he can describe the culprits. He'll come here at once so we can draw up a composite sketch."

Don once more inhaled deeply. Seemed as if they were finally making some progress.

0 – 0 – 0

Along with the water in his little cell, Charlie's panic was rising. He had no watch down here and his sense of time had been messed up considerably, but even without it he knew that he didn't like the speed with which the water was rising. He was already standing ankle-deep in the salt water, although not more than half an hour could have passed since the first drop. Assuming this had been 30 minutes, he calculated a filling velocity of roughly eight and a half liters per minute. And since he had to assume that the velocity was rising due to the mounting flood it would probably take much less than five hours until the water would literally come up to his neck. He could only hope that the flood had reached its limit and that therefore the water was already retreating again.

At least the water had to have a possibility to run off from here, probably through little cracks in the stone, for at his arrival here the place had been dry. And that meant that the water had to run off relatively quickly and that moreover Charlie's chances of being at the edge of a flooding area were quite good since high and low tide happened every six hours. More time than that had had to have passed since the water had come.

Right?

Charlie shuddered and not only because of the cold water and his wet clothing. It was simply impossible to analyze his chances exactly. He became aware – and unconsciously he had known it the whole time – that this whole rubbish with the filling velocity didn't help him at all. He could very well misjudge the time by one or two hours. And he didn't even know how long the flood would last. He had no data; he was, in the proper sense of the word, in the dark. He was defenseless and at fate's mercy. And if fate decided to make him drown slowly, he wouldn't be able to do anything to stop it.

And he wouldn't even know. He would never be able to analyze his situation in exact mathematical terms. That was the worst; that mathematics couldn't help him this time. And he knew it. Even if it might protect him from blind panic – he was aware that this time, it wouldn't be able to help him out of this place.

0 – 0 – 0

A quarter of an hour after Colby's revelation, the doors of the lift in the FBI headquarters glided apart. Hesitantly, a nervously looking young, blonde man stepped out. He looked around for a moment, helplessly, before addressing an agent. She pointed in Don's direction and the young man strode quickly towards the office cell, letting his gaze wander in all directions.

"Hello," he began nervously, and Don looked up from the file filled with Charlie's handwriting. "I'm Jake Thornpike. I called earlier. I was supposed to come because –"

"I know." Don had already stood up and now led the student into an interrogation room.

He sat, heavily, and Thornpike followed his example. "Before you get started on the composite sketch with our sketch artist, we want to ask you some questions." If the student had known him, he would have noticed how tired and heavy the agent's voice sounded. "What exactly happened?"

However, Thornpike didn't respond. "Say... is it really true?" he instead asked his first counter question. "Did they really kill Professor Eppes?"

Don, who had been staring dully on the desk in front of him, jerked up his head. "Who says that?" he demanded to know.

The student hesitantly shrugged his shoulders. "The others. Is... is it true?"

Don stared into his eyes, eyes that were wide open with fear, and in that moment he realized something. He wasn't the only one that was worried about Charlie. Even the mathematician's students were preoccupied for their professor. He didn't have to fight on his own. He had fellow fighters standing by his side.

He shook his head. "No. He hasn't been killed." _Hopefully... hopefully!_, he added in his mind. "He has been kidnapped. And now we're trying to found out by whom. So?"

The student swallowed. "Okay. Uh..." He tried to compose his thoughts. The fact that Dr. Eppes wasn't dead seemed to have calmed him down a bit. "Okay. The man, yes. Well... yesterday, in the afternoon, there I was at the university and I was just on my way back to the library from the message board when... when this man was suddenly standing before me."

"What did he want?"

"He asked me about Dr. Eppes' office. And I told him – I don't know if you know, Dr. Eppes isn't lecturing at the-"

"I know," Don cut him off. "So?"

Thornpike seemed to become slightly unsure. Yeah, he'd been told that a certain Agent Eppes was leading the investigation, and he suspected this agent to be his professor's brother– the FBI stories circulated widely around the campus – but since the agent hadn't introduced himself, he still wasn't sure if the brother was sitting in front of him or not. However, he thought he recognized the resemblance, but maybe he was just another FBI-agent. But now, considering his behavior, Jake was very much inclined to suspect that he was sitting opposite his professor's brother.

"Then I told the guy to try Professor Fleinhardt's office. He and Professor Eppes, they –"

"Yes. So?" Don again interrupted.

"Uh... Yeah. I told him how to get there and so he went. And I returned to the library."

"You weren't suspicious? Or is it normal for people to stroll about in a university?" The fact that he asked the question showed that Don wasn't really firing on all cylinders. After all he himself and his team visited Charlie often enough at his workplace.

"Uh, n-no. He... he looked just like one of us. Like a student."

"Describe him."

"Well... blonde hair, rather short... white. And... well, normal."

"How tall?"

"Maybe as tall as you. Perhaps a little taller."

"Okay." Don ran his fingers over tired eyes and stood. "I'll take you to our sketch artist."

Don threw a last short glance at Thornpike when he took a seat in front of the computer in order to make a composite sketch together with the clerk. Although they had already found out less from witnesses on quite a lot of occasions, he had hoped to learn more from the student. But maybe the composite sketch would help them.

He hoped so. For if not, they would again be at a loss without any clues.


	25. Chapter 25

25 – CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE – 1.137^25

Charlie began to move again. He wanted to get away. He wanted to get out of here. He wanted to run away. However, he couldn't.

Through the inert, heavy water he could hardly make three hops while constantly holding onto one of the walls, before he bumped against another wall. He turned again, and then again into another direction, and again he tried to get out, and again he failed. It was impossible.

The salt water burned the grazes on his forearms and wrists. He had pressed the water bottle against his chest like a lifebelt. The water was already waist high. Even if the tide turned now and started draining away he would still have serious problems and would probably be forced to swim. He could only hope that the water was already retreating and that it wouldn't rise any further inside his hole.

He paused. The sound of splashing water had become weaker. Less. There had to be less water coming through the skylight.

For a few anxious moments, Charlie looked above without seeing anything at all. And finally the splashing died away completely. His prison wasn't being flooded anymore. The water had to be retreating. It was over.

Exhausted and at the same time relieved, Charlie leaned back against the wall, breathing deeply. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest and wondered how many tide changes he would still have to endure in here.

And how many he would survive.

0 – 0 – 0

Don watched his superior with tension. He still didn't know why he'd been ordered to come into his office, although of course he couldn't help having a very specific and very uncomfortable suspicion.

"To cut a long story short, Agent," Merrick, the assistant director, began and Don's suspicion became stronger, "I have to put your team off the case."

"Sir, you can't do that."

"I can, Eppes, and you know exactly that I not only can do, but have to. Your team is biased, you anyway. You can't possibly continue being in charge of this case. After this mess with Norvtcharov we really can do without further scandals."

Fury began to surge up inside Don, but he stayed calm on the outside. "Are you suspending me?"

"That would be the best thing to do –"

"I thought you don't have enough agents," Don interrupted him. "For if you had enough, you could have provided protection for my brother and we wouldn't even be having this conversation now!"

"Are you trying to blame me for your brother's abduction, Eppes?" Merrick retorted coldly. "You shouldn't do that. I could always re-consider my decision."

Don frowned. "But you intend to take me off the case," he reiterated. "Do you want to assign me to another team or what?" He hesitated, wondering if he should really explain to the AD what a daft idea that was, and Merrick made use of this pause.

"No, that's not what I'm intending to do. I'm very well aware that your concentration is currently pointed in one very specific direction and that therefore you wouldn't really be a help to the other teams."

Don didn't know if it was because of his displeasure hearing the news of his suspension, but he thought he could feel that this wasn't everything. "But?" he asked, hopefully.

The AD smiled, and in their current situation the gesture appeared to be fairly out of place. "This mafia case," he explained, "requires as many agents as possible. Now that they have one of our counselors in their grasp, even more so. We're going to unite two teams, one of them yours. However, it won't be you who'll be in charge, but the SAC of the other team."

For the first time this day a little warm feeling surged through Don's body. He wasn't being pulled off the case. "Who?" He asked.

"James O'Connagh," Merrick answered willingly, and warm feeling number two flashed through Don. O'Connagh was a friend of his and more than that a good agent. He would know what to do in order to save Charlie. "His team, consisting of Vicky Lomersdale, Martin Harrior and Daniel Richardson, is going to support the investigation. Moreover, I've consented to the wish of your former colleague Reeves so that she will be counseling the team with regarding to psycho-analysis."

"Thank you, Sir," Don said sincerely and wanted to rise from his seat when Merrick held him back.

"Eppes, I hope I've made myself clear. I would have suspended you if I hadn't had enough confidence in you, so don't disappoint me. You're going to follow every order O'Connagh gives you. No solo efforts. As soon as I hear about the smallest mistake you make, you're off the case."

"You don't need to worry, Sir. I'll do everything that is necessary in order to... to find the victim."

Merrick smiled drily. "I've never doubted that."

0 – 0 – 0

There remained just enough water to cover the ground. It was now low enough that he could ease himself out of his uncomfortable sitting position and lie down. little enough to change from the uncomfortable sitting position into the lying one. He still hadn't found out for sure where the water was going, but it had to by tiny fissures at the edges between the floor and the walls of his stony prison. In any case they were large enough so that the water could run away.

His knee was still pulsating unpleasantly even if he had bandaged it haphazardly. As soon as the water had been on knee-height, he had sat down; the water was bitterly cold. He had taken off his jacket and his shirt and had knotted the latter in agony around his knee. That way it was at least a little bit more stable. And the feeling of pressure was easier to bear than the pricking. And as long as he cushioned the fracture on his jacket, the pain was nearly bearable.

The pain. Not the cold. His T-shirt wasn't made for protecting him from his cool surroundings. However, his drenched wet jacket wouldn't have done any better.

Charlie was lying there, shivering. He was completely soaked and down here it was unpleasantly cold.

He had a headache and his throat was dry. And he felt weak, so impossibly weak... those had to be the consequences of his lack of liquids. Thoughtful, Charlie twisted the water bottle in his hands. He had to stay strong; he had to withstand the urge a little longer; who knew how long he would have to stay here or when he would get the next ration of water?

Did his kidnappers want him to die? If so, why the water bottle?

However, it now occurred to Charlie that they hadn't given him anything to eat. Mind you, it was better that way than the other, for strangely he didn't feel hungry. He was though, unbearably thirsty.

A little gulp of water ran down Charlie's throat before he screwed the bottle shut reluctantly, but with determination. He had to save it.

Now his irregular eating habits were finally paying off. For him it wasn't anything new to take no nourishment for a long period. His stomach had been trained for such extreme cases during numerous hours in the garage. Only the thirst, this thirst...

As soon as Alan reproached him for his eating habits the next time, he would have a nearly unbeatable defense. He was only training himself for the serious part of life; his father should be glad! Yes, at his father's next attack Charlie would be prepared.

Always presuming that there would be a next time.

He was certainly lost in worries right now. His father. And Amita. And Larry. And Don. He would have given a lot for being with them now. For down here, it wasn't only dark and cold and painful and uncomfortable – it was also immensely lonely.

Lost in thoughts, his fingers were playing with the neck of the bottle. He wondered what they were doing right now? He had no clue of what time it might be, maybe around noon? But he was fairly certain that it was still Monday. Yeah, he was very sure; otherwise the flood would have already come a second time.

Charlie's fingers paused. The fear was back again. The flood would return, in less than twelve hours. Again and again and again. Until everything would be over.

One way or another.

0 – 0 – 0

The names began to become blurred in front of his eyes. By now it was Monday evening and they still hadn't made any considerable progress. On the contrary, they even had had to start anew with this searching through the damned files because Larry had called and told them their provisional result: it looked, he had said, as if it was the big mafia that had kidnapped Charlie. He couldn't give them any concrete names, but at least their circle of suspects was now limited and they knew where to look. The problem was only that they didn't find anything in the files.

Don's mobile rang and he jolted up as if he had been stung. The noises immediately around him fell silent, but he didn't notice the tense looks that were being fixed upon him.

There was an unknown number on the display.

"Eppes," Don said. He thought he could hear the hammering of his heart. _Please... please give me a sign of life..._

"Ah, Donnie, thank God!"

Don's shoulders drooped. It wasn't Charlie or his kidnappers. It was his father.

"Dad," he said tonelessly. The disappointment threatened to suffocate him. Everywhere around him the agents returned to their work while he tried to concentrate on the conversation. "Why are you calling?"

"Are you kidding?" Alan sounded incensed. "Charlie isn't answering his mobile, although he said he would call this morning. And at home I'm not allowed to call in case the phone's been tapped. Could you maybe tell me what's going on over there with you?"

Don twisted the corners of his mouth into a smile, but it rather looked as if he was going to cry at any instant. So Charlie had been afraid someone could listen to the telephone in the Craftsman. It was a bit ironic that it was now actually tapped, but by a very different group than his brother had feared.

"Dad, listen." Don swallowed. "We've got kind of a problematic situation." He rose up from his chair and disappeared into an empty interrogation room where he was alone.

"What problematic situation?"

Don couldn't. He couldn't say it.

"Donald Alan Eppes, what problematic situation?"

"Charlie," it finally broke out of him. "It's Charlie, Dad. They've kidnapped him."

There was silence on the other end of the line. For too long.

"Dad?" The fear, omnipresent during the past few days, returned with all its might to the foreground. "Dad, you still there?"

Again the silence. Again for too long. Don was taking in a deep breath to ask more urgently when the words came to his ear, "What are you saying there?"

Don held his cell phone tight. His father's voice sounded hoarse. Hoarse and so filled with fear that Don hardly recognized it. "Charlie was kidnapped by the mafia, Dad," he repeated, and every syllable gave him immense agony. Damn, he had been supposed to take care of Charlie! "We're on it, though." He tried to sound optimistic. "We'll find him."

Don faltered. He held his breath. What was he doing there? _'We'll find him'?_ Why did he say that? Why the hell did he say that!

Again a nerve-racking silence on the other end. "I'm coming over to you."

The dullness fell off him in one stroke. "No, Dad –"

"Yes, Don, and believe me, you can't order me to do anything! Maybe you've got your brother under your control so you can rope him in at any moment for your work, but I am still your father and you can't forbid any father to care for his son!"

The dullness was there again. Alan had sounded more furious than Don had heard him for a very long time. So there he was. His father had analyzed the situation and come to an indisputable result: he, Don, was to blame for his brother's abduction.

"Dad, stay where you are," Don's voice came from his soul. It was empty. Cold. Dead.

Don hung up. He couldn't do it anymore.

0 – 0 – 0

Still caught up in the chaos of his emotions, Alan stared at the cordless phone. The connection had been cut. Furiously, he threw the receiver on to the grey-blue patterned couch in his sister's apartment.

"What's the matter?" she asked him, startled. Although her brother had been quite a nervous guest during the past days, she had never seen him as shaken as he was now.

"I'm going back," he informed her tersely and was already on his way into the guest room to pack his belongings.

"What, now?"

"Yes, _now_." It couldn't have been more obvious that for the moment Alan wasn't in the mood for small talk.

But she could still give it a try. "What's happened, Alan? What did Donnie say? You did talk to Donnie, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," Alan retorted, flinging his socks into his suitcase.

"So? What's up?"

And all of a sudden Alan was as tired as he'd seldom been before in his entire life. He lowered himself onto the squeaking guest bed, his gaze directed onto nothing.

"So, what?" Susann repeated, sitting down next to him, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

"Charlie's been kidnapped."

The words sounded even more terrible spoken out aloud. However, he hadn't fully understood their meaning until he saw his sister's horrified features, her eyes wide open and her hands in front of her mouth.

"Oh, my God," he could hear her whisper, but it sounded strangely far way. His senses were muffled and suddenly he wasn't a part of this world anymore, everything was far away and getting further away from him...

"And Donnie? What about Donnie? How is he?"

Breathing shallowly, Alan lifted his head, staring at her. Then he let his gaze wander again, into the void, to the place where there was no horror.

"I don't know," he whispered. Reluctantly, he could feel the tears in the corners of his eyes. "Oh Susann, what have I done? If... What did I say?" He ran his hands over his face. "I guess I'm the worst father in the world."

0 – 0 – 0

Don didn't see anything anymore. Don didn't hear anything anymore. Don didn't feel anything anymore, not physically. Mentally, however, he could feel more than he would have liked to. The feeling of guilt that he could never assuage suppressing fault he could never compensate threatened to eat him up from the inside.

It had been clear to him the whole time. He hadn't thought about it clearly, of course not, even he could apply the most simple self-protection measurements. Now, however, it was too late. The realization had reached the forefront of his consciousness. And once reached that part, it couldn't be driven out again.

It was his fault.

Don ran both his hands over his tired face, not knowing that in this moment with this gesture he was mirroring his father in Baltimore, 2,250 miles away.

It had started four years ago. Don had dragged his brother into his work and hadn't let go of him since then. Granted, for most of the time Charlie seemed to have wanted it himself, but did that make any difference? He had known, somewhere in his mind he had always known where the whole thing was going to lead to one day. And to be honest: it wasn't the first time. First the sniper, then the shooting in FBI headquarters, shortly afterwards the mafia for the first time... He should have foreseen and prevented this terrible event. He hadn't done that, though.

And that was exactly the reason why he hadn't wanted to call his father. Not only that Alan was now coming over here; no, he had also understood that it was Don's fault. And Don couldn't delude himself. His father wouldn't want to have anything more to do with the murderer of his son.

Don was sick, all of a sudden. He shivered. He was hot, cold, hot. _No... no... not the murderer..._

Charlie was alive. He had to be alive. And he would still be alive when they found him. They would rescue him. Everything would be fine again. Charlie could have a calm life together with their father. Don would retreat. He wouldn't endanger the two of them further.

"Don, are you alright?"

Megan had laid a hand on his upper-arm, looking worriedly at his pale face. He answered with an empty look that hit her so hard she had to swallow deeply before she could continue, "Your cell is ringing."

Slowly, Don turned his gaze to the vibrating item that again – less however than before – attracted the attention of its surroundings.

"Yeah?" The sound came weakly out of his throat.

"It's me."

Don was silent.

"Donnie, I am sorry. I'm... You know that I didn't mean the things I said. Of course I know that what happened isn't your fault. I – I am sorry."

Don kept his silence.

"How are you, Donnie? Are you sure I hadn't better return?"

"No, you shouldn't." Still coolly. Neutrally. But at least not hostilely. "You can't do here anything anyway."

"I... I can... I can help you. And I can be there for Charlie when you find him." _When, _Alan silently tried to convince himself, _when, not if._

"Dad, please, it's too dangerous; I don't want them to... that something happens to you also."

On the other end, Alan closed his eyes. He could hardly bear it that Don was a so much better son than he was a father. "Donnie, they've already got Charlie in order to get their way. They really don't need anything more. There is no reason why they should do anything to me."

Don was silent. Oh yes, there was a reason. But he didn't want to verbalize the possibility; he didn't even want to think about it, that the mafia might need a new means of exerting pressure because they had worn out the old one.

_Stop thinking like that! Stop it!_ he admonished himself desperately. Charlie was alive, everything else was a lie.

"Please, Dad."

Alan nodded slowly. His eldest son did his job and he did it well. And he would probably do it better if there were no nervous, rotten father standing next to him, making him unfounded reproaches. He would bring Charlie back.

With more or less success, Alan fought his tears. It was so unreal, it couldn't be... Charlie couldn't be just – gone! It couldn't be, it would never do...

Alan had to swallow before he was able to speak again. "Alright, Donnie. I'm staying." He hesitated. "But _please_ take good care of yourself."


	26. Chapter 26

Thanks to the reviewers!  
I hope you stay tuned. And now please enjoy :)

26 – CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX – 1.134^26

Don was tired, in every way. Everything was just too much.

By now, it was late Monday evening. Since the conversation with his father, another hour of witness interrogation and search for the mobsters had passed without them having made any progress although they now had a composite sketch of this pseudo student.

He wondered what Charlie was doing right now. _Not much, probably_, a cynical voice in his mind answered him. He swallowed when his imagination, enriched by his job, put horrible images in front of his eyes: Charlie, tied up and gagged, helplessly lying on the floor in some dark cellar, alone, his eyes wide with terror, those eyes hitting him like silent cries of help...

But maybe... maybe he wasn't as helpless as Don imagined. After all, a week ago they had also been able to free themselves and not least because of Charlie's cleverness.

Though this time his brother was alone.

The feeling of guilt hit Don with all its power. If he were with his brother now, if they were together, then they'd have a much greater chance of escaping from the mobsters. If maybe he'd accompanied Charlie to CalSci or hadn't sent him there in the first place, if he had just paid a little more attention...

And instead, he was sitting here. How could that possibly be of use to Charlie? How could he help him from here? Especially when he'd let himself be dragged away by depressing thoughts!

Angry with himself, Don sat up, once more sifting through the possible locations where they suspected the head-quarters were or at least of some mafia hiding-place.

Few minutes had passed when he had already to pull himself together a lot to prevent his eyes from closing. The screen was flickering in front of his eyes; the bright light and the continuous humming was giving him a headache. He had to go on though. He had to go on. He had to find something...

"Don?"

Don squinted, turning around towards the voice. He became aware that once more he had almost been asleep, and when he noticed James O'Connagh's expression it became clear to him that his colleague hadn't missed this tiredness.

"I've just sent your team home," O'Connagh informed him.

"What? Why?" Don sounded a bit more bewildered than politeness allowed him, but the other man generously ignored it.

"Because they looked just like you. And therefore you're now also going home and having a rest."

"But –"

"No, Don, stop it. I understand that you want to find Charlie, but the way you're now, you're really not a big help to us. You need a clear head. Take a sleeping pill and go get some rest. And tomorrow we'll continue."

Don looked him in the eyes, as steadily as he could, and knew that his friend was serious. After all, they'd been on the go for two days now without a pause. He knew that he had no choice and capitulated. He still wasn't convinced 100 per cent though.

"And if they call?"

O'Connagh sighed. Don knew as well as himself how improbable that was. Still. "If they do, it's us who're going to negotiate with them, Don. They'll gather that at least by now the FBI's on their tracks. And if they want to speak to you, there's still your mobile. Trust us, Don. We'll do everything we can. And we'll find him."

Don nodded heavily and hit the road for his apartment. He had already a frightening presentiment of what his dreams would be about.

0 – 0 – 0

Dimitrij Kalinkov nodded thoughtfully. That was good... that was even very good...

"You're sure?" he needed to be certain. After everything that had gone wrong before he couldn't quite believe that now there was really something going right for them.

"Yes, boss," Malenkov confirmed. "They've kidnapped him. We don't know where he is yet, but we know that the FBI is looking for him."

Kalinkov frowned. "Where did you get that from?"

"We were able to eavesdrop on them. Ivanov and Raskolnitov. Moreover they said that they had to be careful because the FBI probably suspected that they were behind the abduction. Ivanov said something about a social network the math guy had composed."

The boss sighed, as much from relief as from tension. Even if the others were the suspects – who could tell them that the FBI's involvement would nevertheless mess up their plans? However, sometimes you had to stop second-guessing and just take the bull by the hands.

"We've got to take advantage of the situation," he decided. "The FBI is too busy to find this math guy and the others are too occupied with the FBI. We've got to act quickly now to finally get the List."

0 – 0 – 0

With trembling limbs, Charlie let himself down again in the shallow bit of water. The second flood had just retreated and with his experience of the first one it hadn't seemed as bad to him and he'd managed to curb his panic. However, he wasn't stupid enough to feel safe. If it got stormy or if there were other changes in the world outside of his dungeon it was very possible that the water would rise higher.

He also thought that this time the water had risen two, three more centimeters higher compared to the last flood. And reluctantly he could feel his body suffering the consequences; he was slowly becoming weaker and weaker.

It seemed to get every worse with every minute passing. Always worse. Always downwards and it had started at such a low point.

In spite of everything, a wry smile crept onto Charlie's face. _When things just can't get any worse, they will. Anytime things appear to be going better, you have overlooked something, _Richard Feynman had said once. And Larry Fleinhardt. Charlie could clearly remember sitting in Larry's seminar in Princeton, listening with fascination to the words of his professor. Larry had told them extensively about the physician he esteemed so highly, and had encouraged some critical discussions on his idol's theories.

_In a certain sense you could also apply this saying to the principles of the theory of relativity or even the uncertainty principle, _Charlie had claimed then. _Is it not so? In order to say if something's good or bad you need something to compare it to. And depending on the observer this point of view can change. Moreover, also the object you're watching can change if you reflect upon it, if you analyze it..._

Charlie could see everything in his mind's eye, the students around him, the atmosphere of the university, Larry's approving smile… And Charlie smiled back at the Larry in his mind.

He sighed. He missed him. Larry would surely have been able to help him now. He would have made him analyze his situation using some of his cryptic metaphors. And even if that hadn't helped Charlie to get out of here, he would at least have felt less vulnerable and miserable. And Larry could have whispered to him something more comforting than that one pessimistic motto of Feynman's.

_Pessimists are optimists with experience. _The way things were looking like at the moment, Charlie had to agree with the proverb and thus also with Feynman's thesis. Generally, he had been thinking for days that things couldn't become any worse, and each time nature had to prove him wrong. At first the mafia groups, Don's hatred against him, the assault in the garage, his abduction. And also his situation in this hole was becoming worse. His drinking water was running low, his pain was increasing...

At least his situation also solved some problems. For example, Charlie was quite sure that Don didn't hate him anymore, at least not right now. He knew by experience that his big brother didn't want him to be endangered. And he was quite certain that Don was probably doing everything in his power to find him.

0 – 0 – 0

"Don? Those students've just arrived. Do you and David want to question them?"

Don had already risen from his chair. He gave O'Connagh a short but grateful glance before he went to the interrogation room. David joined him and they entered the place where three university students were already waiting: a girl and two boys. They had called half an hour ago because there was a possibility they had seen the kidnappers' vehicle.

"Hello, you three," David greeted them. "This is Special Agent Eppes and I'm Special Agent Sinclair."

"Hi. Uh... That's Lucy Sanders, Jack Davids and I'm Mark Baker. Uh... we were told to come here because –"

"Yes, we know," Don cut him off. "So you saw a vehicle?"

"Yeah, yesterday evening," Mark answered. He seemed to be going to continue, but hesitated before eventually asking, "I'm sorry, but you _are_ Professor Eppes' brother, aren't you?"

"Yes," Don replied shortly. "The vehicle?"

"Uh... Well, we already said on the phone that we aren't entirely sure if it's even important... that's also why we didn't call straight away..." Mark fell silent when he noticed Don's expression, and went on hastily. "Right, the vehicle was sitting in front of the university the whole day yesterday. I'd never noticed it before, though."

"It was a van," the other boy piped in. "One of the types with a sliding door on one side. And with tinted windows."

"And black in colour," the girl added.

"What make of car?"

The girl and the boy who had spoken first, Mark, shrugged. "Maybe a KIA, but I'm really not sure," Jack admitted.

Don and David stared at each other.

"Listen, we're not car-jocks, okay?" Mark argued.

"Was there someone inside it? Maybe someone who was waiting?"

The three students exchanged helpless glances. Eventually they shrugged. "We don't know," Mark said. "As we said, the windows were tinted."

"Was that everything? A dark transporter?" Don was finding it difficult to stay calm. He had thought they would finally have something, that they would at last have a real clue. And instead, they were apparently merely three kids who just wanted to see what it was like at the FBI. Probably so that they could boast to their friends later.

He stood, irritated, and wandered up and down the room. He let the air escape through his nose loudly before he spoke, "Listen, guys, if that's everything, you should better go now. Maybe you don't realize that, but we're right now trying to save a human life."

The three students stared at him. "Of course we realize that," Mark stammered after some seconds. "We –"

"Do you have anything else for us or was that everything?"

"We got the license plate."

Don paused. He first stared at the students before he exchanged a staggered look with David.

"You got _what_?" David asked.

"The plate," the girl repeated. "4 PID 434."

Again the two agents looked at each other in amazement. "Why didn't you tell us at once?" David wanted to know, lacking understanding.

"We did. Just now."

A bit unsettled by the men's silence, Lucy felt forced to add, "It's pi, that's why. Four to the power of four divided by three to the power of four, two-hundred fifty-six divided by eighty-one. In former times that was a very well-known value for pi, a bit inexact maybe, but back then it was enough. And then the PID, so to say the ID, the identity of pi... we just thought that it kind of fits..." She looked helplessly at the two boys.

Don's confusion was evident on his face. He was standing in front of three young American citizens, who – to the outside – appeared to be totally normal, who didn't seem to be able to distinguish a Ferrari from a Fiat, but who instead invented mathematical formulas from license plates. Don didn't know if he should really believe that, and yet he was aware that he had already often been a witness to such an anomaly. The girl's comment, the plate, this way of seeing things... all of that reminded him so achingly of Charlie...

"We thought it might be a new professor who has a thing about pi," Mark explained, becoming more and more insecure as the agents continued their silence. "But we called the secretary, first thing this morning, and they don't know the car, it's neither a new professor nor guest lecturer."

David cleared his throat. "Well... Okay, so... thanks, guys. That's all for now. Or do you have anything else we should know?"

They shook their heads. "Will you..." Lucy stopped short before she spoke anew. "Do you believe you'll find him? Professor Eppes?"

"Yes," Don said shortly before he left the room without any further word.

The others stared after him. "Okay, right..." David cleared his throat once more and tried to ignore Don's behavior. "You've really helped us a lot. And don't worry. We'll... we're optimistic that we'll bring your professor back to you, alright?"

David wouldn't have had to look at their worried faces to know that too many things were most certainly not alright.


	27. Chapter 27

Thanks to notsing for your review! Yes, some sort of Don-anger will come later in the story (at least the thoughts you described in your review), but I thought that right now Don would be too (pre-)occupied to reproach Charlie.  
...and thanks to everyone who is still reading this :)

27 – CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN – 1,130^27

While researching all they could on the transporter, they were also looking for it. Larry and Amita applied themselves to writing an algorithm in order to help them look at the satellite pictures, searching for the vehicle.

The two teams and Megan had also been making inquiries about the dealer who had sold the car, but had found nothing. The car's buyer had either gone underground or used a false name; in any case there was no address for him, nor a social security number or any other documents. The man didn't exist.

However, they now had an exact description of the vehicle – at least they hoped so, praying fervently that the mafia hadn't changed the plates.

Hope.

Actually, it was grotesque that one simple witness statement had brought back to all of them the zeal they had lost in the course of the previous investigations. They had a clue a real clue! And it would lead them directly and within a short time to Charlie, that was certain.

Half an hour later, the moment had come. O'Connagh waved the agents of his unit to come to him. He had just received a call from Granger. "James, we've got the transporter. David and I are at the address Amita and Larry gave us and the vehicle's still there. The description fits. However, it's no KIA, but a Mercedes-Benz M-Class, but the plate is correct. It's standing in front of a run-down apartment house.

"Okay Granger, you won't interfere and you'll keep us up to date in case anything changes. Alright?"

"Alright."

With new determination O'Connagh turned around to face Don and the others. "What are we waiting for?"

0 – 0 – 0

Ivanov folded his mobile shut. "That was the boss," he informed his three colleagues. "He wants us to come to head-quarters in an hour; he wants to hold a meeting of how things are going to proceed. And... Boris?" He spoke to Chrushtchov. "After that the two of us will have a nice chat with the professor. We don't want him to die of thirst, do we?"

Chrushtchov nodded deliberately. "Depending on how the next days are gonna be we should maybe look for another hiding-place for him." He smiled nastily. "Who knows, we might still need him alive at sometime."

"Where did you take him to?" Rurik Petrov wanted to know, but Ivanov shook his head.

"The less you know, the better."

"Yeah. For you," the fourth voice in the room cynically intervened.

Ivanov didn't seem to be the least bit ashamed of the fact that his colleague Oleg Borisov had seen through his plans. He just grinned. "You know, it's every man for himself and the Devil takes the rest."

"But I also know the one about honor among thieves."

Ivanov laughed. "Don't worry. Not one of us would ever betray each other. Everyone knows that can be very damaging to your health."

"Anyway," Petrov changed the subject. "In any case we should gradually start to collect the documents if we're supposed to be with the boss in an hour."

He rose, but he never reached the neighboring room. Before he had even reached the threshold, the apartment door banged open and FBI agents rushed in their weapons drawn.

"Kitchen safe!" one of them shouted.

In the next instant a woman's loud voice shouted out, "Bathroom safe!"

At the same time, agents rushed into the room, pointing their weapons at them. "FBI! Hands behind your heads! Everyone! I want to see your hands!"

Still too confused to think about rebelling, the four criminals obeyed the order. "Alright! Now turn around, all of you, faces to the wall!" The agent shouted louder as if the level of sound in the room was rising.

A few instants later, their arms were pulled down roughly and they were cuffed.

"Where is the hostage?" the agent with the volume problem shouted in Petrov's ear. "Where's my brother?"

Petrov had by now regained his capacity to talk even though mentally he still wasn't able to perform to the maximum; his head was just whirling too much. It was therefore wise to first pretend being ignorant. "Whatya talkin' about, man?"

His arms were pulled harder and a voice hissed into his ear, "I know that you've got him, and if you've so much as touched a hair on his head, then God help you!"

Petrov maintained his cool facade, but was nevertheless relieved when the agent was addressed and thereby distracted from him. "Don, he's not here. The apartment's empty."

The shouting agent pushed Petrov away from him so that he stumbled some steps forward before he was again taken into custody by another. Before he was led away, he could still see and hear how the agent punched furiously against the walls.

0 – 0 – 0

"Give in, Don. He's not here." Colby stood in the door that led to one of the bedrooms, watching a bit helplessly as his friend and boss searched the apartment for a second time. He tore doors open, looked under the beds, the couch, in the cupboards. But there was no trace of Charlie.

He would have given quite a lot if Megan had been here right now, but instead of having pinned all their hopes onto this operation here where she couldn't have participated anyway, she had stayed at head quarters. And Vicky Lomersdale, the woman from O'Connagh's team didn't know Don well enough for a sensitive talk. And David had made himself scarce. So it really seemed to fall onto Colby.

"Don –"

Since Colby didn't know what he could say it was maybe quite good that Don cut him off. "Is there a cellar to this apartment?" he asked with feverish nervousness. "Is there a cellar here!" he repeated, already much louder when Colby didn't answer him at once.

"I don't know, maybe," he now said, a bit stunned, and before he could think about what to say next, Don had already rushed past him, out of the room.

Five minutes later, the janitor led them into the basement of the apartment house. Apart from the room holding the boiler it was split up by wooden gratings, reminded Don uncomfortably of cages. His tension was rising. Maybe he was here somewhere... for sure...

"Charlie?"

The door to the little cellar compartment was opened and he stepped in.

"Charlie!"

He looked around, looked in every corner, pushed boxes aside.

"Charlie, you're here somewhere?"

It was no use. There were no possibilities here to hide a grown person. Charlie wasn't here.

0 – 0 – 0

He wasn't even startled when it began anew. By now he had a routine concerning the regularly occurring floods that nearly made him more afraid than the rising water itself. This was the fourth one; it therefore had to be Tuesday evening.

He was cold. He had already detected that he was coughing more often and that mucus seemed to be collecting in his lungs. The two days in this damp hole couldn't have been good for his health – in addition to a broken kneecap.

He pulled his left leg closer towards his body and wrapped his arms around it. That was all he could do to keep himself warm, especially now when the water was returning.

He was barefoot. Since the second flood he had always taken off his shoes and socks so that he could keep at least the latter dry and put them on again after the flood. That way he managed to keep his feet warm if only a little bit.

Not for the first time, images of his home appeared in front of him in the darkness – warm light falling upon the comfortable sofa in the living room of the Craftsman, the dark dining table on which so often stood home cooked warm meals, something to drink; he could see pictures of his father coming out of the kitchen, of Don coming in through the front door, Amita cuddling up to him on the couch... He thought he could feel her body against his, and the warmth penetrated through him and reached his heart. Though at the same time he could feel in that very heart an ache, and then there was this terrible feeling in his stomach... He wanted to be with them, he wanted to be home, sheltered, safe. He was longing so much for home that the mental pain even surpassed the one in his knee, and he fought himself back to the brutal truth.

He noticed nearly immediately that he was shivering again. The warmth was gone, the pain in his knee was making itself present again. However, with the images of the beloved people and places in his life, his inside ache had also gone. Still Charlie didn't know if this had been a good exchange. None of the two options appeared to him more favorable than the other.

His thoughts returned to his surroundings. He was aware that his condition was constantly growing worse as more time passed. _They will find me sooner or later, won't they? For if not..._

When he shuddered once more, he let go of all reservations and retreated again into the warm thoughts of his home.

0 – 0 – 0

"How could that have happened?" The mafia-boss' powerful voice echoed from the walls with thundering noise. The two newcomers had to pull themselves together in order not to flinch. Even though they were merely witnesses to the things that had happened and no way immediately involved, the boss seemed in an irrational way a bit intimidating. But maybe that was only because he could in the blink of an eye order someone to kill you.

Andrushov and Raskolnitov, the two mobsters that had just arrived, had had to make some purchases and had thus passed one of their hiding-places when, to their shock, they had seen FBI agents bustling about everywhere. Afterwards they hadn't had difficulties in finding out that four of their accomplices had been arrested. However, the major problem was their boss who didn't like to hear that sort of news at all.

He took his inferiors' embarrassed silence as a reason to continue yelling at them. "How silly are you actually? Could you maybe tell me how we're now supposed to get the List?"

"It's not our fault, Bolshoyov," Andrushov said calmly, at least on the outside. "We're not responsible for them letting themselves be seen."

Though indignant about Andrushov's provocative tone, the boss inhaled deeply. "Alright. What do we have now?" A bit placated, he detected that his voice sounded just as calm as Andrushov's.

"We've still got the plans and beyond that everything is already settled for the operation. It's just that Ivanov, our hacker, is now missing. But for that we've got the professor."

"And he's where?"

Andrushov shrugged his shoulders. "That's something only Ivanov and Chrushtchov know. And they're being held at head quarters right now. Ilya knew a hiding-place, but he didn't tell me which. Maybe it's also one of the places we know."

That was bad luck. If they had at least known where the professor was, they could probably have made him hack into the security program for them. They could be very convincing. "So we can only hope that Ivanov is going to play his winning card at the right moment. And that he gets Chrushtchov and the other two with him out."

"And what are we going to do with the professor?"

The boss snorted impatiently. "What are we going to do? The two of them are likely to have made certain he can't escape. And we've got more important things to do now. Each team is going once more through its part and tomorrow at the same time we're meeting here piecing together everything. As soon as the others are with us again, we're going to strike. Budanov says the others aren't ready yet either; moreover we'll try to prevent them from stealing the march on us."

Andrushov didn't let himself be distracted. "Boss, what if the professor dies, wherever the two of them have taken him? We don't know how long the FBI is going to negotiate with them or if they're going to do so in the first place rather than just interrogate them. And if Ilya and Boris don't have a means of exerting pressure anymore –"

"Relax, Sasha. Forget this math-guy. It's completely irrelevant what will happen to him. As a means of exerting pressure, it doesn't matter what his condition is. How should the Feds know if he's alive or not?"

0 – 0 – 0

With his lips closed tightly and his gaze steady, Don watched Colby and David interrogate Ivanov from the observation room. The initially nearly unbearable pain that he hadn't found Charlie had subsided and given way to grim determination. Two hours had passed since the arrest, and they still hadn't been able to get anything out of any of the mobsters. It wouldn't stay like this, though. At some point in time, everyone broke.

With an unwavering gaze, Don stared through the mirror at Ivanov. His hands were clenched to fists. This bastard had probably kidnapped Charlie and he wasn't telling them anything. He had also watched the interrogations with the other mobsters. He had searched for some sort of signal the suspects would in one way or another give themselves away, though they hadn't found anything anywhere. He paid particular attention to Ivanov, it was he they had a description of; what was missing was only the final proof.

No surprise they hadn't found them at first. They had been concentrating upon the branch-mafia's members; after all they had threatened Charlie already once – _no, _Don corrected himself, _twice_. However, Larry and Amita had told them that according to Charlie's analysis, three of the four men belonged to the big mafia, and it was likely that this was also the case with the fourth one, Rurik Petrov.

"Where is Professor Charles Eppes?" David leaned over the table, closer to Ivanov.

Since they guessed that the mobster was more unscrupulous than most criminals, they had renounced from the beginning on the good-cop-bad-cop game and had immediately tried the bad and the very bad cop. However, without success up until now. Ivanov wasn't talking. Even worse: he was mocking them.

"I think you should be interrogating yourselves," he this time countered the question. "No offense, but either there's something wrong with your ears or with your memory."

"Or with your answers, Ivanov!" Colby snapped at him sharply and fit his role totally by hitting his two hands on the table with emphasis. However, he wasn't play acting when he wandered through the interrogation room unnerved.

"We know that you were at the university the day Professor Eppes was abducted. And what might matter to you even more: we even have proof of that." At least with all probability. The student Ivanov had asked for directions Sunday in the university hadn't been there for a lineup yet, but with the identikit sketch there remained little doubt that Ivanov was their man. And with the student's witness report they would be able to pin the mobster down.

"You know sweet F.A.," Ivanov said calmly and with an arrogant smile on his lips. "You can't prove anything against me. I'm innocent."

The door to the interrogation room opened and a red-haired woman in her late thirties stepped in, Vickie. "He's there," she informed her two colleagues and was already gone again.

David stepped to Ivanov from behind. "Well, in that case let's see how innocent our witness thinks you are." He was still amazed at the man's arrogance in refusing to have a lawyer present, but also pleased because it made the possibility of getting something out of him easier for them.

They brought Ivanov to the room used for the lineups. Five other men were already inside, all of them FBI agents in casual clothing, similar to the mobster's. Ivanov took the plaque with the number four and was placed in the line. Then, the five men entered the room.

In the meanwhile, James O'Connagh, Don and Jake Thornpike, the student who had made the witness report against Ivanov, waited on the other side of the mirror. And Ivanov had hardly entered the room on the other side of the pane when Thornpike called out: "That's him! The one with the number four!"

Jake's certainty didn't waver a jot while the procedure was carried on according to the regulations. The men all stepped forward one by one and turned sideways before they finally all left the room again, but there was no doubt in the student. "Number four," he confirmed when O'Connagh at the end looked at him questioningly. "For certain."


	28. Chapter 28

Thanks to notsing for the continual motivation you provide me with by your reviews :)  
Playing the mobsters against each other? Nice idea. Well, let's see what our favorite Feds are going to do…  
Have fun :) 

28 – CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT – 1,126^28

Instead of improving, everything seemed to be becoming worse.

After they had informed him about the result of the lineup, Ivanov admitted the abduction. He confessed the crime without further resistance. It was _his _crime; Petrov and Borisov didn't have anything to do with it, he declared. And with this statement, he set his two colleagues free. Despite their investigations and despite Charlie's analysis they had no evidence that they had committed any single crime. They didn't have anything on them, so reluctantly they had to release the two men.

And that wasn't everything. For even though Ivanov confessed the deed – he was still withholding information on Charlie's whereabouts. They had lost two suspects in the lineup and hadn't gained any clues.

Only Chrushtchov remained. After a short hesitation, Ivanov had admitted his complicity in the abduction and also Chrushtchov himself had confessed his participation. Though even his cooperation had reached an end at this point. And the confession had become unnecessary anyway after O'Connagh's team had found Charlie's belongings when they'd searched the car with the pi-plate – his wallet, his keys, his turned-off mobile – and the items had the fingerprints of Ivanov and Chrushtchov.

"Where is he?" Colby had again taken on his very-bad-cop-posture, but if he thought he could make an impression on the criminal that way, he was mistaken.

"Just give in, agent," Ivanov sighed arrogantly. "You know exactly that you won't make me make tell you. Unless, of course, you can offer me something in compensation." He grinned innocently and knowing how much of a criminal he was the gesture seemed so inappropriate one wanted to scream.

"Not before you tell us where he is!" In reality they of course didn't intend to ever give in to this horse trade, but they didn't have to tell Ivanov that. After all, how would it work? They would release the criminals, hoping that Charlie would eventually come back to them as if nothing had happened?

* * *

In another interrogation room, Don and Daniel Richardson, an agent from O'Connagh's team, were busy with Boris Chrushtchov.

"I can tell you, Chrushtchov, your situation in here isn't improving!" There was a menacing undertone in Don's voice.

The mobster however shook that off of him with a shrug. "So? Do you think the situation's any different for the professor?"

Don held his breath.

"Where is he?" Richardson asked, not for the first time. They had already stopped counting how many times they'd asked this question.

"In a hiding-place," Chrushtchov answered inexpressively without giving any information. "Moreover, in a very good one. Besides Ilya and me, there's no one else who knows where he is."

Don's fist landed hard on the table. A flicker of grim enjoyment made his eyes sparkle when the mobster flinched slightly. His voice was low, dangerously low. "Are you aware that Ivanov has given you away?" He laughed briefly, a cold laugh he didn't recognize as his. "He told us everything about your complicity without hesitation. He turned you in to us."

With satisfaction, Don watched Chrushtchov's jaw muscles tense. The guy was furious. Good. Maybe he would now betray his accomplice...

"He's going to betray you again," Don added. "He's going to tell us about the hiding-place. He'll probably get out years earlier and you'll have to serve the full time. And that only because you thought you could trust him."

For an instant Don really thought they had him. But only for an instant. "Ivanov has only given me away so that no one from the outside can spoil his plans." That seemed to be a satisfying explication to him, for he did not continue.

"You can tell yourself whatever you want," Richardson went on. "He's shopped you. And he'll do it again. He'll lead us to the hiding-place sooner or later, and then you're going to be the loser.

"Even if that's right," Chrushtchov waved the argument away, "you still can't play tricks on me. I won't tell you where he is. That is unless you've got a bargain for me. If you don't want to make a little bargain and make Ilya and me stay here... Well, in that case it's not my fault if your little friend kicks the bucket."

It came all of a sudden. Don didn't even need a second in order to grab the mobster's collar and shout at him. "WHERE IS HE? WHERE DID YOU TAKE HIM TO?"

He could sense hands from behind pulling him away from this bastard. "Don, calm down –"

However, Don neither could, nor wanted to, stay calm again. Sitting in front of him, there was one of the only two people that knew where his brother was, and they weren't telling him. And they couldn't do anything about it.

With a jerk Don ripped himself away from Richardson's grip and stormed out of the interrogation room.

Chrushtchov in the meanwhile had managed to replace the startled fright on his face with a scornful, innocent grin. "Seems to have some anger issues, your fellow."

0 – 0 – 0

Alan stared at the phone as if he was trying to make it ring by thought alone. When he had called Don, they had just intended to start interrogating the people that with all probability had his son in their hands. That conversation had occurred nearly two hours ago. Now, it was shortly before two o'clock in the morning, eleven o'clock at night in L.A., though for Alan the idea of sleeping didn't even cross his mind. _Who knows, maybe those men just confessed and told them where Charlie is and they're freeing him right now..._

For a wonderful moment Alan let himself be carried away by the hope that they at this very moment were rescuing him. And soon his phone would ring and Don would tell him that everything was alright, Charlie was unhurt and safe and sound. He imagined them searching an abandoned house. The upper rooms searched as they slowly make their way downwards to the cellar. They open the door and the light of the torch falls onto Charlie's face, the skin pale, eyes wide open like a deer caught in car headlights. His stomach threatened to revolt at the image; at the same time his heart seemed to tear apart and he longed so much for encircling his youngest son in his arms, together with his eldest, feeling both his sons at his side and knowing they were safe and sound...

Something made him shiver. Shuddering, he seemed to shake off the warming image of his sons from him and it disappeared in the darkness of the room. However, the darkness wasn't that intensive anymore, it was lit by a ray of light blocked by his sister's shadow. She was standing in the open door through which a slight breeze had just blown.

For some seconds she just stood there in the door, searching for the right words to say. There were none and she tried to chose the most helpful ones. "Can I do anything for you, Alan?"

She didn't receive a response. She lightly touched his arm. Until now she had seldom seen her elder brother so lost. "Alan?"

He swallowed, though several insecure seconds passed until he spoke, "He should have come with me."

This wasn't Alan. Not the voice, not the tone, not the words. The voice sounded rough, hoarse; the tone was resigned; the words spoke of regret, of railing against fate, of a what-would-have-been-point-of-view that was normally so unlike her brother. His optimism, his whole optimistic nature, had given way to the one of an old, tired, nearly embittered man.

"They haven't given up searching yet, Alan," she said and there was a hint of reprimand in her tone. "And you shouldn't give up either."

0 – 0 – 0

"I don't think they'll confess of their own accord."

Don's head turned towards Megan. "How can you be so sure about that?" he asked trying to suppress his anger.

"Well, besides the fact that they haven't talked since yesterday evening and that they want to have a deal? Don, he's simply not the kind of man who easily lets himself be intimidated."

"So you're proposing that we just sit around here and wait for new information."

His hands had clenched into fists. After his outburst in the interrogation room he had come here into the observation room and had joined Megan. However, Richardson's futile attempts to make that bastard talk didn't really contribute to him calming down.

Megan didn't miss his tension. "We have to look for new evidence. Maybe we're lucky and Petrov and Borisov will lead us to the rest." Megan was talking about the surveillance of the two released mobsters. "Until then we won't be able to do anything. None of them are talking."

Don was breathing shallowly and fast. He knew that Megan was right. It could only be a matter of a few hours until the surveillance would finally provide them with results, and maybe it was then that they would finally make progress. However, he was equally well aware that Charlie's life might be hanging by a thread at this moment.

There had to be a possibility, something, anything they could use to make the mobsters talk! Heavens, they had never had such problems until now! Why out of all their cases it had to be this one?

Don paused. They _had _had a problem like this already. They had tried everything, applied all methods they knew and hadn't made any progress. The situation was so similar to this one that it was even a bit eerie. And back then they had also managed – or rather: _Charlie _had managed. He had... damn it, what exactly had happened then?

Don made himself concentrate hard. He closed his eyes. His forehead was furrowed. He could see the files in front of his eyes again, the faces of three men, their suspects, Charlie at a white wall, in an interrogation room, black numbers and words on a white board...

Megan flinched when her former boss stood without warning and headed out of the room. He had to find Larry, Larry... Without taking care or even notice of his surroundings he rushed through headquarters until he finally reached the slightly remote conference room. He stopped abruptly when a pale-faced woman stood in front of him.

"Don – I just wanted to ask you... do you have anything new?"

Don was shocked when his gaze took in Amita's appearance. Actually he should have been prepared for this, though he had been so occupied with himself during these last few days that he had hardly thought of her. No, he hadn't thought _of_ her, only _about_ her, and that always in connection with Charlie.

She looked awful. On her pale forehead, furrows of worry had collected; the pasty skin was only interrupted by her slightly reddened cheeks that had to have arisen from the lack of sleep or the anxious work. Her dark eyes were big, looking at him; the pupils were quivering a bit, as well as her lips.

"We're working on it," he said brusquely and tore his eyes away from the sight of her. He couldn't let himself become distracted now; there would be enough time for compassion later. "Larry, I have to ask you something. I think it was three or four years ago that Charlie did something when we had three suspects and none of them wanted to talk. It was about this truck with the toxic waste that had disappeared."

"Ah, the caesium. Of course, I remember."

Don couldn't help but notice that Larry also was pale; the dark shadows under his eyes were proof of his lack of sleep – whether due to the work quota, due to the worry or because of both. There were more urgent things, though. "And what did Charlie do then? He was in a room with the three suspects and showed them something and finally one of them gave us a statement."

Don's eyes were fixed onto the professor in tense expectation, but the other man only exchanged a confused glance with Amita.

"We talked about it!" Don continued, desperation rising in him. "You explained me something about... about suspects making statements and not making statements and yet still making statements because if they do they get the lowest sentence..."

Larry was frowning. Don's feeling of helplessness was rising. Could no one help him, did no on understand, did no one know what to do?

"The prisoner's dilemma?" Amita asked, uncertain.

Larry's features lit up. "Of course! I remember what you mean! The risk analysis! If I'm not very much mistaken, Charles did a risk analysis in order to find out the one among the suspects who the most had to lose. Under normal conditions, they should have talked anyway because of the prisoner's dilemma; though they hadn't done so. It was only after the disclosure of the data that they couldn't be sure anymore if their accomplices would testify or not and so they decided to cooperate."

Don was frowning, though due more to concentration than to confusion. "Yeah, I think that was what I meant. Could you do the same with the mobsters?"

Larry's features became a bit darker again and thereby buried the hope and expectation that had crept onto his face. "I'm not sure," he answered hesitantly. "That would require that one of them has more to lose than the other one. And judging from our previous information..."

"We'll try," Amita decided. And with determination upon her face she didn't look quite as bad as earlier.


	29. Chapter 29

Thanks to notsing for your kind words! It's so nice to know that the story is read – and appreciated :) And don't worry, it will be continued, for it is written and nearly all of it is already translated, it just needs to be corrected. So another thanks to Starfishyeti who still hasn't lost her patience with doing the correction on this rather long story!  
Hope you enjoy!

29 – CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE – 1,123^29

"What's going on here?"

Don, Larry and Amita's heads whirled around at the sound of Megan's voice.

"We're trying to do a risk analysis so that we can make at least one of the suspects talk," Larry explained to her.

Don didn't even give her an opportunity to ask further questions. "It's good you're here. Vickie and you, you investigated the guys' backgrounds, didn't you? We've got to know if they have any family."

Megan understood, not what their friends intended to do, but that right now wasn't the moment to ask questions. "They don't," she answered, shaking her head. "No close relationship with their parents even though they're still alive, nor any steady relationship. One of them has got a girlfriend, but it's very on and off again. The woman doesn't even know about his mob activities."

For Don that was no argument. "That's what they all say."

Megan shook her head sympathetically. "Still, Don. They haven't been together for very long and she couldn't tell us much about him. And now that she knows about the connection to the mafia, the relationship is probably over anyway."

Larry shook his head. "In this case things are really looking rather bad. These two men don't have much to lose, and the thing that is even more important is that neither of them seems to have more to lose than the other. At least as far as we know."

"And that means?" Megan asked with her eyebrows raised.

Larry sighed. "The prisoner's dilemma says that in such a situation both of them would have to talk. If I'm not mistaken, you've already promised the two suspects leniency if they testify against the other. That means that if no one talks, they get normal sentences. If one of them talks, they get a conditional release and the other one a worst sentence. And if both talk, they both get a lighter sentence as if neither of them had testified. So if they can't be sure if the other had decided to betray them, talking would be the best strategy. However, all that doesn't work with an organization like the mafia because there are further participants in the game. Someone who betrays his accomplice could get a conditional release, but he's going to be punished by the other mafia members for his betrayal.

"Our only opportunity would have been to show them through our risk analysis that one of them has got more to lose than the other, so that for him it would be tactically wiser to cooperate with us. However, none of them has got more to lose than the other."

"And that means?" Don asked. He had a lump in his throat and wasn't sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

Amita, her gaze upon the ground, justified his doubts. "That means that the risk analysis doesn't help us. You've got to make them talk another way."

Don bit his lip. _That's what we've been trying the whole time; we're not getting anywhere!_ And still he was determined not to give up.

Wordlessly, he stood, leaving the three to get back to the interrogation room. Amita stared after him and the bit of hope that still remained in her left her more with ever step he went away from them without turning around. Seeing Don so tense reminded her very clearly of how bad the situation actually was. Their only clues were the suspects – and they weren't talking. And as more time went by, the chances of getting Charlie back alive became less and less.

She knew that there was still hope as long as Don was fighting, even if everyone else had already given up. And it was the same with her. Neither Don nor she would give up Charlie as long as there was still a tiny spark of hope of finding him. Nothing was lost by now. _We're far from being too late_, Amita told herself. She'd simply misjudged Don's behavior, yes, certainly. She felt terribly lonely and looking at the couple before her only reinforced that feeling. That was surely the only reason why her heart contracted so painfully. Surely it was that. Not the realization that the critical time frame of forty-eight hours was already over.

"Everything will be alright, Amita."

Megan appeared in Amita's slightly blurred view. It wasn't until now that she became aware of the tears in her eyes, and it wasn't until now that she noticed the soothing hand on her shoulder. "We've still got a chance of finding Charlie. The description of his kidnappers and the car are in the media. And soon the other suspects will have led us to the mafia's main base."

Amita nodded, wondering at the same time what in heaven that was supposed to change?

0 – 0 – 0

Charlie was staring into the deep blackness that was by now nearly familiar to him. He wasn't sure if his eyes were open or closed. He didn't know if he had become blind by now, but after all it didn't matter. As long as his situation didn't change the answers to these question were irrelevant.

The fourth flood had subsided. The excitement had worn off. The mortal fear was latent again, not bubbling up as in the beginning or during the floods or the panic attacks.

He had to pull himself together in order to not waste his last water reserves just because of boredom. He had handled the water thriftily, painfully thriftily, and there was still about one ninth in the bottle. He now just had to take care that it remained like this. He couldn't think of drinking, not of the water...

His thoughts wandered to Amita: her wonderful black hair, her dark, vivid, deep eyes, her enchanting smile, the graceful way she moved, how she nearly danced when she came towards him and kissed him, her soft lips on his... He could smell her perfume, could nearly sense the touch, but not quite, he couldn't really touch her, would maybe never be able to touch her again, would maybe have to give up this desire...

He bit his lip. He had to think of something else, anything that wasn't painful that could be a distraction. Maybe he could work mentally on his cognitive emergence theory... or develop another theory, explore the world of numbers...

His mind was empty, though. He didn't have the slightest clue what to think about. A case for Don? But he didn't even know what his brother was working on. Maybe he was still busy with this mafia case. Or... or maybe with the abduction of his brother.

In spite of himself Charlie had to smile. He hadn't thought of that. Of course, he hadn't forgotten that he was trapped in here – if he should ever forget that, he told himself, he should really doubt his mind and overthrow his hitherto work on cognitive emergence – but it simply had slipped his mind that he had been _abducted_, that there were people out there searching for him.

Provided that they hadn't given up already.

Charlie sighed. Maybe he should see one more time if there was really no way out of here after all. Yet he had thought about it exhaustively, though as long as his search for a way out of his dungeon didn't end with a satisfying result – and an empty set was definitely _no_ satisfying result –, as long as that he would keep looking into the matter.

The problem was that he was going round in circles – at least mentally. He had gone through every possibility a dozen times already. He had also tried to push his way upwards between the stony walls, the way Don and he had done in the doorframe when they were children. This time, however, he had a useless leg. He had failed miserably and painfully. As long as the water was gone, he lacked the necessary buoyancy that raised him up at least a bit. And both with and without the water the walls were still too slippery to rise up higher than a meter.

He had also tried to find out where the water was flowing way to and if those chinks provided him with any kind of possibility – even if it were only to make the world outside notice him. However, the chinks were too narrow to even let him push something through; even a scrap of paper. He had tried to broaden the tiny cracks with his fingernails, but the stone didn't allow it. Eventually, he had even taken off his belt and tried to carve holes in the walls with its buckle in order to have a better hold and to be able to climb up in some way after all. Of course it hadn't worked.

During the third flood he had been so desperate that he had taken off his clothes and laid them where the floor met the walls. He had known it would be of no use, but somehow he had still hoped that the material would maybe prevent the water from flowing away. That the clothes would act as a dam and that, in the water, he would maybe be able to reach the slab over his hole. In vain. Even if he thought that the water had flowed away a bit more slowly, he had still had several hours in the dry until the third flood – although he had to wait for it in wet clothing.

And gradually he ran out of ideas. He just didn't know anymore what to do. Except for waiting that help would finally come.

0 – 0 – 0

Once more Rurik Petrov looked into his rear view mirror. "I think we finally got rid of them," he then said to his colleague in the passenger seat.

Oleg Borisov twisted in his seat, looking out through the rear window. No, there was really nobody there, nobody at all. They had agreed on a test on this broad and clear country road to see if the FBI's unmarked cars that initially had been following them had finally left them alone. But now it was really time to get back to the boss.

"So let's go to the meeting," Borisov decided. "The boss will want to know the details of what has happened."

Petrov nodded and took the next turn off. He would still take a circuitous route despite everything. You could never be too careful.

Three quarters of an hour later, they knocked at a door in a multi-storied apartment block. "Al Capone?" they asked quietly through the door. They assumed that the code word hadn't been changed during the last two days.

And they were right. From inside, there came a dull voice, "Still busy counting his change."

"The interest is going to us," Petrov answered with the second part of the password. The door was opened and they were let in.

The door had hardly fallen shut and they hadn't even moved two feet when a deep bass voice penetrated from the main room of the apartment. "Did somebody follow you?"

"No," Petrov answered. "At the beginning the cops were still after us, but we got rid of them."

"And the car?"

"We changed the number plate with marker until we're able to get a new one. It's now 4 RID 484. But we should swap the plate with one of our other cars so that in the worst case they've still got to chew on it."

Bolshoyov nodded, though the expression on his face didn't change. This was a serious affair. That might be the reason that – as Petrov and Borisov had detected at their entrance – apparently all high-ranking mafia members, at least as far as they could tell, were present as mute statues.

"What about Ilya and Boris?"

Rurik Petrov shrugged. "I guess they're still being interrogated."

Borisov jumped in. "They probably want to secure their releases by using threats. After all they're the only people to know where the professor is. And they are going to make that clear to the FBI."

"But how can they detain them in the first place? What is their evidence?"

Petrov grimaced. They had really had some bad luck there. "Apparently they've got a witness who saw one of the two. Probably Ilya when he went into the university; aside from that they were always together."

"And Boris?"

"Ilya must have given him up. The cops didn't say in the interrogation that there was other evidence."

Petrov grimaced again when he became aware of what he had just said. He could tell from Bolshoyov's look that he was going to hit the roof. And he didn't have to wait long for the outburst. "Ivanov did _what?_ Has he completely lost his mind? Why didn't you stop him?"

Borisov's calm voice seemed to have some effect even on the boss. "What were we supposed to do? Besides Ivanov has done the best thing possible for us. The cops would have been able to figure out that he couldn't have carried out the abduction on his own. They would have continued sniffing around. And this way the two of them still can use the fact that there's nobody's out anymore who knows about the hiding-place."

Bolshoyov allowed himself a moment to think about these words. It wasn't easy for him to admit that, but it seemed as if Oleg was right and Ilya had done the right thing. Well then. In this case he would hopefully also know what to do in the future.

He was just about to change the subject when a burst of sound drowned out his forceful voice. In the next instance, uncountable, darkly dressed men moved through the small room shouting orders. The boss couldn't understand what was happening to him. Also the other mobsters had difficulty comprehending the events. However, for at least two of them the riddle of the strange men wasn't hard, but much greater was their horror. Petrov and Borisov felt as if they were trapped in a terrible déjà-vu.

Handcuffs clicked around their wrists for the second time this week. Again they were taken away, still confused, though quick-witted enough to sense the boss unbelieving gaze fixed on them.

0 – 0 – 0

Wednesday afternoon the break-through had come, longed for, yet unexpected. Of course they had kept surveillance on Petrov and Borisov after their release, and of course they had installed bugs and a DF transmitter in their car, but they hadn't dared to hope to gain results that quickly. Due to their bad experiences they had even feared that the mobsters would change their vehicle and therefore had followed them, especially when the car had come to a standstill. Such as now.

O'Connagh had just been informed by his agents that the mobsters had just parked their vehicle and had gotten out, probably going to join a convention of the mafia ring. At least that was what they had talked about earlier.

That had been their opportunity. And O'Connagh hadn't taken long to come to the conclusion that a little raid was very appropriate. He just had had to inform the rest of the team. "They've parked their car again in a residential area with many apartment houses. The address is situated in one of these hot zones from Fleinhardt and Ramanujan. SWAT has already been informed. Vicky and I are going there; David, Colby – you're coming with us, Megan and Don – you stay here and go on with the interrogation." O'Connagh had noticed that Don was going to protest and had got in ahead of him, "Don, I hardly think that they hid Charlie there, and yet if they did you're the first one I'm going to tell."

He had expected that Don would resist further but he was wrong. He had been surprised regarding Don's conduct, but he didn't complain. He had had good reason for not wanting Don on the op with them. His colleague wasn't demonstrating what one would call maximum performance at the moment. And O'Connagh couldn't have been sure about how he would behave when he would meet Petrov, Borisov and an unknown number of further mobsters again.

Of course, after Charlie's abduction they had all expected that Don would have difficulty coping with it. However, none of them had expected the dimension that was developing. Don had changed – but in which way, O'Connagh couldn't tell.

While he and Vicky had taken the lift downwards to their car, Don's face had still been hovering in front of his mind's eye. Pale, worn-out from lack of sleep, tense… The stiff posture, the tense shoulders, the alertness. And then the eyes... O'Connagh had continued seeing them in front of him, hadn't been able to get them out of his mind. Don's eyes had lost their usual resolute gaze, permanently widened, directed into the distance, in the void. It was a gaze O'Connagh didn't recognize in his colleague, a gaze that didn't have anything to do with Don's usual determination anymore. His whole thought processes, his energy, his determination seemed to have given way to another, a strange feeling.

Fear.

That was it. There hadn't been any doubt anymore for O'Connagh; the gaze in Don's eyes, his tension, his way of moving – it was so obvious and still he had taken so long to work out that feeling. _But why?_ he had asked himself and given himself the answer straightaway. After all, fear was something Don didn't feel often and he showed it even less. Worry, yes, but fear? That was something out of the ordinary. And things out of the ordinary didn't portend any good.

0 – 0 – 0

Nearly imperceptibly, the last drop fell from the opening of the bottle, falling onto Charlie's dehydrated tongue. Slowly, though much too fast, it carried out its voyage down through the gullet. Charlie continued holding the bottle vertically downwards for several minutes, but it had definitely been the last one. Charlie didn't have any water left. Not counting the floods that regularly tried to drown him.

The sixth one was due within a short while. So it had to be Wednesday evening, assuming that he had come here in the night from Sunday to Monday and not from Monday to Tuesday. And with this point, Charlie was – compared to the other ones floating around his head – relatively sure. Thus he had been here for a bit more than sixty hours. Two and a half days. And they had given him one water bottle.

For the hundredth time he wondered when he would finally get some water again. The questions, _Will I ever get water again anyway?_ and _Why did I get water in the first place?_ followed closely. And just like every time Charlie couldn't find a satisfying answer to even one of those questions.

On the one hand, he couldn't imagine ever getting out of there; on the other, he could just as badly imagine dying in there. And he desperately clutched at this last bastion of hope: they had given him a water bottle; they hadn't killed him at once, they had wanted to keep him alive...

But who could assure him that they hadn't changed their mind?


	30. Chapter 30

Glad to be able to welcome a new reader (and reviewer)! Thanks to the two of you, notsing and Kasadija957! I hope you'll continue reading :)  
ad Kasadija957: Since neither English nor Russian is my mother tongue too, I understand perfectly what you mean ;)

30 – CHAPTER THIRTY – 1,120³°

Don's breathing was shallow.

Despite his tiredness his eyes were wide open. Although staring at the table, their gaze was vacant. Charlie had been kidnapped, Charlie had been kidnapped, Charlie had been kidnapped... The dreadful truth wound itself in an eternal mantra through his weary brain.

From time to time it was superseded by another one: _Where is he? Where is he? Where is he..._

Don bit his lower lip. They hadn't found anything. They just hadn't found anything at all. They could interrogate these two men as long as they wanted; they wouldn't get anything from them. And the more time they wasted, the longer Charlie was stuck in his confinement.

But maybe the other mobsters would bring them nearer to their goal? Maybe they would tell them something? But what if they didn't know anything... However, there was a possibility. Maybe O'Connagh and his men had just now caught these guys, maybe they would talk, maybe they would finally find Charlie then.

_Charlie._

How long might he be able to hang on?

That depended on how well his kidnappers were caring for him (and on whether Ivanov and Chrushtchov were speaking the truth and really nobody but them knew where Charlie was). And _that_ depended on what they wanted from him.

With that, Don had again reached the starting point of his recent days' thoughts: why had they abducted Charlie? What did they want from him? What had they done to him? If they only wanted to get rid of him –

Don felt sick and with desperate resolution he managed to push the thought aside. No, if they had simply wanted to get rid of him, they wouldn't have had to kidnap him. For sure. Don had dwelt on this for so long by now that generally there was no other possibility in his eyes: they had abducted his brother in order to distract them from the Janus List, for the same reason why the branch mafia had abducted them the first time. Successfully. Yet, the FBI had also combined two other teams that should be able to thwart the mafia's plans, but at least with Don the distraction had had its effect. The List didn't matter a jot to him anymore.

The problem was that with this assumption he couldn't tell what the mobsters had done with his brother. They could let him stay alive as well as... not.

A cold shudder ran down Don's spine. _No... please, no..._

It wasn't inconceivable, however. The impossible was possible. And even if they didn't directly... if they hadn't done it directly, they could just as easily reach their goal by doing nothing. If they just forgot about Charlie...

Without nutrition, a man could survive for a long time, up to a month. Without liquids, however, things were much worse. Two days, maybe three.

Three days had passed since Charlie's abduction.

Don ran his hands over his face. It couldn't be, it just couldn't... They had to find him, soon, before he'd... before it was too late. It just couldn't be possible that they'd arrive too late; they couldn't do that.

Don was frightened.

0 – 0 – 0

Charlie trembled.

He had crouched down as well as he could. It didn't help much, however. His clothes were wet and stuck uncomfortably cold and dankly to his body. His teeth clattered against each other. The sound created a slight, though by its slightness not less dreadful echo reverberating from the stony walls again and again, thus providing a background sound to the nerve-racking silence. Again and again new bouts of coldness shook him and shivers ran down his back. However, that wasn't the only way his body was stricken by convulsions. His diaphragm already hurt because the bouts of coughing just didn't want to stop.

His physical state completely justified his trembling. And yet Charlie was aware that his physical poor state wasn't the only reason for this reaction. Until now, he had deliberately neglected the psychological aspect. However, he knew very well that he couldn't ignore it forever. And who was he fooling? Should he really mobilize his last bit of strength in order to self motivate and thus give himself strength? The futility of the whole thing was deplorable and pathetic.

In any case, it was a fact that he couldn't recall an event where he'd ever been in a more miserable situation. The coldness and the pain and the lack of nutrition and liquids were wearing him out. And he couldn't imagine by any stretch of the imagination how Don would ever find him.

_Don_.

Charlie's heart contracted. The longing threatened to tear him apart from the inside. He wanted to get out of here, he needed his family and his friends around him, he needed them to help him live...

However, not only the longing made him feel miserable. Thoughts of Don were doubly painful. Thinking of Don represented his naïve hope; hope with an extremely short half-life of which the major part had already decayed. No, he couldn't really believe anymore that he would ever get out of here.

And Don could probably not really imagine it either. Of course, Charlie knew his big brother well enough to know he wouldn't give up searching for him, but he also knew that Don could take a sufficiently realistic view of the situation. He had to know that Charlie couldn't survive in here for long.

That meant... Don didn't even know where he was. He didn't know that the mobsters had trapped him without food in a dungeon that was regularly filled and emptied with seawater.

Basically, it was strange. If the mobsters really intended to let him perish in here – then why had they given him the water bottle? And if they wanted to keep him alive, maybe only as a means of exerting pressure, then why were they treating his life so carelessly? What on Earth did they want?

It was so illogical; nothing made any sense. And nothing could help him, nothing and nobody.

But maybe Don understood all of it. In any case Charlie could very well imagine that he was trying his hardest. He was surely leaving no stone unturned; just like the time Megan had been abducted. And just like then he probably reproached himself.

Charlie's face twisted, struggling for a wry smile. Yes, that'd be the customary thing for Don to do. Reproaching himself for something he wasn't possibly to blame for.

Oh God, all this had to be so difficult for his brother! The pressure that was laid upon him, the pressure he inflicted upon himself – and all maybe for nothing?

Another shudder ran through Charlie. _Maybe for nothing._ Maybe all their exertions were in vain. They wouldn't find him in time or at best his corpse.

Charlie crouched even further, but the trembling got worse. And there was no sense anymore in telling himself that the coldness was the only reason for that.

Charlie was frightened.

0 – 0 – 0

Only three of the mobsters were led into the FBI head-quarters in a strange procession: Bolshoyov, Borisov and Petrov, the first because of his position in Charlie's network analysis and the latter two of them due to their last stay here.

They had only got arrest warrants against the mobsters that appeared in Charlie's network analysis; they had, however, also taken the others into temporary custody and sent them over to the LAPD. The others were being held, separated, on remand. They would deal with them later.

Don's hands were still trembling when he, together with O'Connagh, entered the interrogation room where Max Bolshoyov was sitting. Colby and David would take Petrov to task and two of O'Connagh's team, Martin Harrior and Daniel Richardson, would take care of Borisov. They were getting closer to Charlie with every passing minute. Don could feel it. This was another chance.

The trembling of his hands became more violent.

"Where is Professor Charles Eppes?" O'Connagh demanded of Bolshoyov when they had hardly got done with cautioning him.

"I beg your pardon?" the mobster boss asked politely and you could have believed that he really didn't know what all this was about.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, and I advise you not to try playing any games with us. That could become nasty and unhealthy for you."

Don was struggling for composure, though his chest was trembling. He had been told by O'Connagh to stay in the background and not to 'lose it', as James had put it. Until now, though, he thought bitterly, he was being quite successful.

The mafia-boss smiled indulgently. "Is this supposed to be a threat, agent? Since when does our government's administrative machinery condescend to illegal methods such as violence?"

Don bent down to him, closely. He spoke softly, but his sharp voice could be heard without difficulty. "Not the government. But this is about the life of my brother and in this case I don't give a damn about what some pencil-pushers think they can order me to."

Even though for the moment Don didn't seem to care about his career –O'Connagh was still relieved that he'd later be able to explain the tape recording as 'special interrogation techniques'.

Bolshoyov seemed to be slightly caught off-guard by Don's words. However, he took the time to think about his words first before they exited his mouth. The feds could wait until hell froze over; he wouldn't give himself away. "So this professor was your brother?" He didn't expect an answer, so he continued at once. "That has to be hard on you. You have my heartfelt sympathy."

Don clenched his teeth. He hadn't missed Bolshoyov's dramatic choice of tense. "He's been abducted, not killed. We're going to find him, you can bet."

The mobster actually managed to mock Don without giving himself away. "So you're sure he's still alive? That's nice for you. So everything that remains for you to do is find him."

O'Connagh noticed that Don's features took on an inhuman expression, and he found it was high time to cut the thing off. "Stop these games. We know that you're the head of a criminal organization. Do you want to tell us anything about it or should I tell you how blotted your copybook is?"

"With pleasure. I think that'd be very amusing."

"Amusing?" O'Connagh repeated. He hoped that Don wouldn't let himself be carried away to say something that might lead to a disciplinary hearing, but he detected with relief that Don was really controlling himself. The tension on his face and in his posture, however, told of how difficulty that seemed to be for him.

"Amusing? You'd better take good care that you won't be laughing on the other side of your face. We've got proof of your crimes, Bolshoyov." They didn't have evidence for all of them, but that wasn't something the mafia-boss had to know. "Smuggling, people trafficking, drug dealing, several robberies and murders; everything that organized crime dabbles in. Including the abduction of a federal consultant."

Bolshoyov didn't lose a jot of his casualness. "I'm afraid you must have mistaken me for someone else, sirs."

Don was seething and was doing everything in his power to stop himself from attacking the bastard. "I hardly think so," he hissed. "And we're going to nail you, Bolshoyov. And if anything happens to my brother, I'll personally that your life becomes such a hell that you'll wish you were never born."

The cool mask did not even slip in the face of Don's heated mood. "I'm trembling with fear. But you can threaten me as much as you like, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. I don't have the slightest clue of what you're talking about or the whereabouts of your consultant."

0 – 0 – 0

He didn't like it. Not at all.

Maybe Charlie only imagined it – and he hoped fervently that he was mistaken – but he couldn't get rid of the impression that the rustling of the sea had increased in volume. And a second one confirmed this impression; that apparently the water was filling his cell with increased velocity.

Immediately, the next moment Charlie scolded himself. If he assumed that the rustling was louder, it was completely natural that he told himself that the water was rising faster. By assuming it, it appeared to him that way, because he only observed what he wanted to observe.

His theory was however gravely called into question by the fact that there was no way he could _want_ to observe something of the kind. Might be he only told himself those things – seriously, he'd be glad if he were wrong. However, the unpleasant feeling of dread remained.

Approximately two hours later, there was no doubt for Charlie anymore; the water was rising more quickly than during the previous floods. Already the last one had been more violent than the others, but this sixth flood seemed to be outdoing even that. Right now, the water was already up to his larynx throat and his heart seemed to be hammering somewhere in this region also regardless of the fact that he was trying to save energy.

"Help!" He shouted and was aghast about how rough and cawing he sounded. "Help!" He wanted to shout once again, but his voice failed him. He had used it so seldom during the past three days that he seemed to have forgotten how to make human sounds. And the lack of liquids hadn't really helped the development.

And yet, it was senseless anyway and Charlie knew it. Nobody would be able to hear him down here, not during low tide and even less during a flood.

But why? Why had fate suddenly decided to make everything just another bit harder for him? Was it getting bored as time went by or what?

It had to be the weather. Charlie couldn't think of any other explanation – unless someone had dammed the Pacific in an attempt to create electricity from it. No, the only rational explanation for the greater rise of water in his cell was a storm. The floods out there had to be more violent, the waves and the water level higher. It meant for him that the water would splash down to him for a longer period of time, and that therefore the water amount would increase. Which, of course, didn't exclude fate's mischievousness as the reason for all this.

_Well, those are really rosy prospects._ Charlie would have liked to convince himself that he was wrong, that he was only imagining the rise of the water and therefore also the storm, but this damnable logic supported his theory. Logic and his observation.

The water rose higher and higher, and soon Charlie couldn't stand anymore without his mouth being surrounded by salt water. For a few seconds he tried to keep himself above the water by swimming, but the pain in his knee and his exhaustion made him manage that for only a very short time. Panic attempted to pull him down when he thought he was going to drown, but then his hands brushed against the wall and he knew he wasn't lost yet.

He forced himself to remain calm and extended both his arms out to the sides. They easily touched the two opposite walls of his stony cuboid and held him some inches above ground.

However, even though the water helped him in keeping himself up high, his shoulders and upper arms soon became heavy. They were just as exhausted as the rest of his body and not able to carry him for more than a few minutes. He had to hang in there, though, had to...

He got a cramp in his left shoulder. He tried to ignore it, tried to keep himself up high, but he couldn't. His muscles weren't up to the requirements anymore, and suddenly Charlie's feet touched the ground. The water closed over him, and for a tiny instant he forgot where was up and where was down. Salt water came into his mouth. He frantically tried to spit it out; he couldn't. He wildly flung his arms around him. Up, he wanted to find the surface, but he didn't know where that was. He couldn't rise anymore, no more, he was going to drown...

With an immense effort of will Charlie struggled to pull himself out of the sea of panic. His mind started to work rationally again. Swiftly, but not frantically, he groped with his left foot until he found something solid, and he pushed himself off it. A fraction of a second later, his mouth also was free of the salt water, and he coughed to get it out of his lungs.

He now tried to support his right arm with his left leg, but he slipped off. Again he tried, again the bare sole of his foot slipped down from the smooth stone. Eventually, the third attempt kept him above the water.

Charlie was breathing fast. The pain in his knee was there again. Also his lungs now stung uncomfortably. He needed air, he needed to get out of here, he needed to rest...

However, as long as there was water in here, he would have to continue to fight. On and on. Again and again.

Until the end.


	31. Chapter 31

Thanks a lot to the reviewers! Your comments motivate me a lot! And yes, I definitely agree with you that Charlie won't be able to bear this state for a very long time ]:)

31 – CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE – 1,117^31

"The problem is this that he could be telling the truth, Don."

Don didn't even look at O'Connagh, but just kept staring stubbornly straight ahead while they made their way from the interrogation room to Megan who, apart from her psycho-analyses, administered all their information. As time had gone on, they realized they weren't going to get anything from Bolshoyov. Momentarily, their greatest hope lay with their colleagues having more success with Petrov and Borisov.

O'Connagh continued, "It's well possible that he really doesn't know anything about Charlie's whereabouts."

"But maybe he does know something," Don retorted, "and if he does, I'll make that bastard tell me."

O'Connagh didn't answer, and so they fell silent until they reached Megan.

"Anything new," Don demanded.

Megan shook her head. "The other two haven't said much more than the last time either." She looked up at O'Connagh, her gaze a silent request.

The agent in charge nodded. "I think we should go on with the other mobsters and interrogate them. Maybe we'll find an accomplice of Ivanov and Chrushtchov among them. And as soon as we can interrogate Ivanov and Chrushtchov again, we'll get started, at least in case that we don't get useful information from the others."

Don contorted his face, unsatisfied. This regulation that you weren't allowed to interrogate a suspect 24/7 really got on his nerves.

0 – 0 – 0

Eventually, exhaustion had won.

After it had become apparent that none of the mobsters would make a statement regarding Charlie's whereabouts, Amita had fallen deeper into her hole. It was just... not fair. It wasn't possible they couldn't find Charlie; he and Don and the others had helped so many others, complete strangers. So why should all their best efforts fail when it was now he who needed them? It just wasn't fair...

It was hell.

Amita's eyes were permanently reddened. The queasy feeling in her stomach had increased immeasurably since Monday, since she had known about the abduction. She was frightened.

She had hoped to be able to bear it by plunging into work, by making herself useful, by bringing Charlie back. The pain and the fear had remained unbearable though.

She had done the work grimly and silently. Larry hadn't been more eloquent than she had been. She could imagine how he was feeling. Her own mental state helped her a lot in this context.

Again – no, rather still – she wondered how Charlie was. Maybe he was hurt? Was he in pain? Was he alone or were there other kidnap victims with him? Or mobsters? What was happening to him? Were they questioning him? Or torturing...? Was he maybe missing her just as much as she was missing him?

All of a sudden the question seemed to her unbelievably naïve and banal. Charlie might be struggling for his life in this very instant, and she was only thinking of herself wondering if he was missing her. It seemed to her so mean and egoistical... and yet she longed for an answer to this question.

And even more she longed for Charlie.

The agony had kept her in movement for a long time, until there had simply been no more for Larry and her to do. They had no more data to be analyzed; the rest would be done by the computers without them needing to be there. All they could do now was to wait helplessly.

Just as helplessly as Charlie.

After the main mafia mobsters' arrest, it hadn't taken long until Amita had fallen asleep in front of the monitor in the little conference room. Everything was simply too much. She longed so much to be able to relax, for serenity, for a feeling of home.

She could find what she sought in her dreams. For there, Charlie was waiting for her.

0 – 0 – 0

"I want to make a deal," Viktor Budanov said when O'Connagh and Don had hardly stepped into the interrogation room. The two of them faltered, looked at each other and then over at the criminal.

"What kind of deal?" O'Connagh inquired. He remained neutral, objective, as if he wasn't really interested at all in what Budanov could offer them. However, his interest was aroused. And he could sense that Don also, behind and to the side of him, could hardly bear it anymore. He instinctively knew that his colleague would have liked to go for this guy's throat this very instant in order to learn more about the bargain.

"I've got information that you might like to know," Budanov explained.

O'Connagh could hear Don's breathing accelerate. He himself however forced himself to stay calm. "What kind of information?"

"Kalinkov. I know everything about him and his people, their hiding-places, their plans, who the people are."

The two federal agents hardly managed to hide their disappointment. Of course, Budanov was offering them a Christmas present here. However, they would have preferred an Easter present. Instead of the discovery of the branch-mafia, they would have liked much more to be able to celebrate Charlie's resurrection.

And yet, this chance had to be made use of. "Where do you have this information from?"

"I was a mole. Bolshoyov sent me off to spy on Kalinkov and his plans."

That sounded logical, maybe a bit too logical. Everything here was going like clockwork. They had arrested one part of the mafia, and one member of this part was just about to lead them to another part of the mafia after less than five minutes of interrogation. The whole thing sounded even more suspicious to O'Connagh considering that since Charlie's abduction they had had to surmount one defeat after another. He didn't believe in presents anymore, no matter if for Christmas or for Easter. "Why are you telling us this?"

"Hey, I want a deal. My cover's blown anyway. As soon as Kalinkov knows that I've been arrested with Bolshoyov and the others, he'll put one and one together. He's suspicious already anyway."

"Of you?"

"Nah," Budanov said, as if it was obvious. "Norvtcharov. The guy was sniffing about looking for something. Came in quite handy for me. Kalinkov –" He stopped short. Something seemed to have occurred to him. "By the way, what about my deal? Conditional discharge?"

"We'll see what we can do. We should at least be able to allow mitigating circumstances." This time, O'Connagh was serious.

"Okay. But I warn you, don't you dupe me. Then you're gonna pay for it personally, is that clear?" He looked at the two agents fiercely, then continued without waiting for an answer. "So as I said, Kalinkov suspected that there was a mole loitering about. And since Alex asked questions all the time, he became suspicious of course. In the meantime I could spy on Kalinkov's plans without being hampered. The idiot really trusted me."

"And the information you got you then gave to Bolshoyov, right? What kind of information are we talking about here?"

Budanov shrugged. "Plans about their intentions. Different things."

O'Connagh accepted the empty answer. After all, they already knew about the Janus List and Budanov on the other hand didn't have to know what they knew. "So Kalinkov let Norvtcharov be killed because he considered him a mole?" he asked instead.

Budanov nodded. "Right. By Pyotr Malenkov. That's the one who nearly always attends to the higher-class dirty work."

When O'Connagh turned towards Don, his look was returned. Pyotr Malenkov was the murderer of their colleague. Charlie had been right with his analysis. "And why did Bolshoyov buy a witness to incriminate Kalinkov?"

Bolshoyov raised his eyebrows. He seemed honestly surprised, but quickly put on a mask of mocking appreciation again. "You figured that out? Respect; really, man. That's a thing not many know even among us. But you're right, Kalinkov's group got on Bolshoyov's nerves; they kept on messing up our plans. And since you were too stupid –" He faltered and then apparently thought that considering he'd just made a deal it was probably not politic to insult his negotiation partner. "So since you apparently had no evidence against the others, Max got hold of a witness. But I don't know where he got him from; I only know that this guy does this and that for us every now and then. Dirty work." Budanov seemed to be immensely proud that he himself didn't have to dirty his hands with this sort of work.

"Okay, Budanov." All that sounded surprisingly good. Budanov's statements matched their previous investigation results. It was time to search for the really interesting facts. "And who abducted Professor Eppes?" O'Connagh could almost feel Don tense behind him.

"Kalinkov and his people," the mobster answered like a bullet from a gun. He was about to continue, but Don didn't let him.

"Where are they?" He demanded, and there was a dangerously determined undertone in his voice.

Budanov held his hands high in defense. "Hey, take it easy. The guy and his brother have been free for a long time already. They managed to escape."

It took them some seconds for the two agents to realize what their informant was talking about. O'Connagh was faster. "The second time. Professor Eppes was abducted a second time. By whom?"

"Oh, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you there. I'd have to grope in the dark just as much as you in this case."

That was too much. O'Connagh knew it and held Don's jacket from behind, even before he had even got close to Budanov. Don tried to break lose, he wanted to charge at the mobster, he wanted to do something, anything, that would bring him a tiny step closer to his brother – but James didn't let it happen.

Don ceased to fight against his colleague. O'Connagh slackened his grip and Don struggled to get out of the room, leaving the two men alone without a word. He couldn't stand it any longer. Each time hope came from somewhere, igniting a spark in his soul that grew, swelled up, glowed until somebody would stamp it out with brutal truth. He wouldn't be able to bear that fact that they weren't making any pogress for much longer. There had to be a possibility somewhere...

They had seldom been in such a fix as now, and Don didn't have any doubt that everything would have gone in a different direction if Charlie had been with them. The problem was that sides had changed. Charlie was the victim here; he couldn't help them anymore.

Don knew that it wasn't completely fair towards Larry and Amita, and probably he was wrong; still, he couldn't quite get rid of the thought that with Charlie's help, they might have been able to find the abduction victim's whereabouts by now.

0 – 0 – 0

Exhausted, Charlie lay on the stone floor, trembling and coughing. The water had subsided. It had been close, close and hard. He had managed though. He was still alive.

Inevitably, the _For how long?_ pushed its way back into his mind, but with the perpetual repetition, thoughts about dying gradually lost effect .

The next question however couldn't be ignored that easily: _What for?_

What was he fighting so hard for? Sooner or later – and there was a certain tendency to sooner – he'd die of thirst down here anyway.

He smiled wryly. It sounded very cynical that with all probability, he would either die of thirst in this hole or drown.

The question was if there was even a sense in all these exertions, the agony, the woe. If he was going to die anyway – why should he torture himself before then? Just for a few more minutes of life? But what life?

As if the salt water from the sea hadn't been enough, Charlie's body was now also producing some of it himself. What had he thought of just now? He didn't want to die, he mustn't die, there were so many reasons to stay alive...

He just couldn't think of them right now.

If he couldn't get out of here anyway, at least not alive – what was the meaning of the warm images of Amita and Larry and his father and Don? If he wouldn't see them again anyway – why should he fight for them?

_I owe it to them._

The sentence echoed in Charlie's empty mind with all its pathetic melodrama. And yet he knew that it was true. Out there, there were still people who confided in him, who relied on him coming back to them, who wanted him back among them. And he counted on them not giving up him on him. They had silently agreed upon an alliance in which his life was at stake. They had all agreed upon it, and he owed them that he too did his bit to aid his rescue. He wouldn't give up.

The pain and the longing and the woe were still inside him, but a great part of him was determined. And as long as he had enough strength to breathe he would continue fighting.


	32. Chapter 32

Sorry this took me so long. I've been more busy these days than I had anticipated.

Thanks for your reviews, also for the criticism! Amongst other things it made me realize that I'd better make the timeline clear: the last Charlie-in-that-black-hole-scene (of chapter 31) is set in the morning hours of Thursday. Since Charlie was abducted during the night from Sunday to Monday, that makes a bit more than three days of being in that hole – I know that's a stretch, but I tried to create a scenario that's at least (close to) possible (and well, I do have a tendency to melodrama).

Ah right, those "optimistic" thoughts of Charlie's? Just a momentary flicker of hope. It's gonna be more realistic (=pessimistic) very soon, I can guarantee you that ;)

Hope you're going to continue reading :) 

* * *

**32 – CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO – 1,114³²**

At dawn, the team that had additionally been entrusted with the mafia arrested the branch-mafia. Budanov had given away their hiding-place willingly. After initial mistrust it had become evident to the investigators that his behavior was totally logical. His number was up – so he was willing to negotiate to get a reduced sentence. And at the same time he tried to thwart the plans of the competing group. With success.

To help Budanov and the big mafia by their actions went quite against the grain for the FBI. However, in this case they had the same aim: they wanted to eliminate the branch-mafia. And as long as they had the same aim, they would have to fight side by side. And against each other. For it wasn't only Kalinkov's men they were currently questioning, but also Bolshoyov's.

They weren't getting anywhere, though. Since most mobsters were now in custody it was true that they now couldn't get hold of the Janus List and thus the mafia's plans were thwarted and the agency in charge had been warned off – but Charlie still remained as if wiped off the face of the Earth.

Don was again sitting at his desk, running through old witness reports. Maybe it was here somewhere where he could find a clue hinting at a hiding-place used by the mafia? He would clutch at this straw until one of them, Don or the straw, broke. He was tired. And the mental tiredness was even worse than the physical one. He tried not to think about the fact that by now the fourth day of Charlie's abduction had begun. The fourth day of no progress – ignoring for once the arrests of two big criminal organizations. However, this success was nothing in comparison to what they had lost.

Don didn't even manage to reprimand himself for his pessimistic thoughts. He was so tired...

He heard the rain drumming against the window outside. The wind was raging around the FBI building. Through a glass door Don could see outside the window. Although it should have been light by now, the sky was still dark blue and gray. Tousled rags of clouds ran across the sky. It was really been some time since that they'd had such a storm.

And all this just now when Charlie was missing. Don wondered how he was. Was he out in this weather? Or wasn't he even noticing the storm? Maybe he was sitting crouched in the darkest corner of a dark cellar right now, maybe he had heard the thunder's roll in last night, maybe the flashes had filled his prison in sudden attacks with their cold light...

The worse the scenarios Don's tired mind presented him became, the clearer Charlie's face in front of Don's eyes became; its features twisted in agony, the eyes phosphorescent and wide open, emitting silent cries of help which Don could hear as if he stood directly next to him. However, he couldn't locate them, not trace them back, not find them... He would never find him, never, never...

The ringing of the phone pulled him out of his thoughts.

0 – 0 – 0

"You can stare at the phone as long as you want, you won't make it ring."

Alan lifted his head. His sister was again standing in the door frame. His heart was pounding. He hadn't heard her arrival.

"Don't you think it's time for you to go to bed, too?" Alan could tell that she had already been to bed. She looked tired and a bit ruffled. Alan wondered if she had indeed been able to sleep. And if she had really managed, how had she done so?

He shook his head slightly. "Don said he'd call as soon as he has something new."

"Well, he had to stop you somehow from calling him every half hour."

Alan lowered his head.

Susann looked at him with compassion. It hurt her to see her 'big brother' so downcast all the time. Of course she too was worried for her two nephews, but her worry couldn't keep pace with Alan's desperation. "Just take a sleeping pill. Or should I make you a cup of chamomile tea?"

Alan chose the sleeping pill and Susann guessed that he just wanted to be left alone. And indeed she managed to find a few that hadn't expired yet, although Alan's sister wasn't on good terms with pharmaceuticals. A strong body flourished best if you didn't try to push it up with artificial medication.

Then, however, her gaze fell upon Alan, upon the tiredness in his face, upon the bowed posture, upon the slack shoulders. What actually made her think of a strong body?

After five and a half hours Alan was already stirring. The pills had fulfilled their purpose; he had fallen asleep without seeing some horrible image of one of his sons when he had closed his eyes. The images hadn't left him alone for long, though. They'd followed him into his dreams, images some of which he would probably never forget, also some of Don, but mostly of Charlie. Charlie with his eyes wide open, Don with his face tired, desperate, Charlie in a dark cellar, Don fighting against mobsters, Charlie with his face pale and lifeless, Don telling him that they hadn't been able to save him anymore...

Alan had awoken at once, but not fast enough to be able to forget the image. Now he was sitting on his bed and dialed Don's number with trembling fingers. It couldn't be later than six a.m. In L.A., but Alan hoped that his eldest maybe was still or at least again in his office, that he was still searching for his brother, that he hadn't given up on him yet...

"Eppes."

The amount of relief that swept over Alan at the sound of Don's voice felt a bit inappropriate and exaggerated. However, he had neither the time nor the nerves to think about that. "Have you found him?"

"Dad." Don's voice was calm, nearly indifferent if it hadn't sounded so lifelessly.

He had intended to go on talking, but Alan's tense voice cut him off. "Have you?"

So there it was, the hope. The hope that had remained despite all the suffering and despite all the setbacks. That what he would now have to destroy again. "No, Dad." Don closed his eyes waiting for the expected reaction. It failed to appear. He continued, "We managed to arrest the mobsters, though, at least the higher ranking ones. The two groups have been destroyed."

Alan inhaled deeply. He trembled. "And Charlie?" he asked and despite everything there was still a tiny spark of hope in his voice that hadn't been extinguished by now.

Don swallowed. "Nothing." The two short syllables seemed to have burned his throat and trachea. Nothing. They had nothing, not the slightest clue, apart from some dozens of stoically silent mafia-members.

The silence lengthened, but Alan's answer was even worse than the silence. "I'll come back."

All at once Don sat up straight and stiff in his office chair. "What?"

"I'll fly back to L.A., Donnie, as soon as possible, and –"

"Have you taken a leave of your senses?"

"Donnie, you don't know what it's like here! I want to be with you, I want to be there when you find Charlie! And now those mafia groups are harmless, aren't they?"

Don shook his head. "No, Dad –" He swallowed hard. He couldn't think of anything how to convince his father to stay put; his mind was empty.

"I'll come back, Don," Alan confirmed his decision. "Now that those mafia groups are shattered there's no danger anymore, right?"

Alan seemed to have achieved the exact opposite of what he had intended. "No Dad, on the contrary. Right now there are still scattered mobsters out there who are desperate enough to get their buddies free again. And if –"

"So why are you staying there?" Alan cut him off, and with every syllable he verbalized his voice filled itself every with more reproach and volume.

"Because I have to find Charlie!" Don as good as shouted his desperation into Alan's face, as if he wasn't aware of the receiver in his hand and the distance between them. "And now don't pretend as if that weren't more important to you than anything else!"

"Donnie, I want both of you to be fine! And it's getting to the point that I don't know anymore for which of you I should worry more!"

Don ran his hand over his exhausted face. "Dad, just stay where you are. I'll call you if there's anything new." Without another word he put the receiver down and immediately regretted his last words. The question vibrated uneasily in his mind; when and especially with what kind of news would he talk to his father the next time?

0 – 0 – 0

There wasn't anything more to do.

Their task was over, the mafia groups were caught, and for what regarded the rest of it, they weren't getting anywhere. They were going round in circles, around their own axes. Maybe that was why he felt so dizzy.

Or was it the world that turned around them? Of course it was both. That meant that maybe they just had to look a bit harder, to wait for the right moment, and then the solution of the most important problem would just come along...

It wasn't that easy, however. This problem wasn't one he could abstract that easily. The world of science, the world of mathematics, was too elegant for the lower spheres of human weaknesses. You couldn't just solve any human problem with maths.

Not normal people. But Charles.

With a trace of desperation Larry shook his head. He had seen Charlie grow up and been allowed to watch as the mind of this still so young genius had found a direction, a way, had been allowed to see thoughts being created that, up to a certain point, had changed the world. Charles had been his pupil, his responsibility. The young man had been given into his care, almost as if he was his own son.

Son. Friend. Brother.

Maybe a brother in spirit. In any case the term 'colleagues' had never been enough to describe the complex structures that connected them, that had bound them to one another. After Megan, it was Charles who meant to him more than any other person on this planet – no, 'after' was not the right word; the two relationships just weren't comparable.

He hadn't let it show, however. And it had worked. He had buried himself in the work, quietly and grimly, not quite unlike Amita. He had had to do something. Not only in order to rescue his charge, also as a clean, egoistic protection of himself. And he couldn't even summon up the strength anymore to become hysterical or to lose his nerves. No, on the outside Larry was cool and composed.

Inside him raged hell.

It had already become apparent when Alan had left. Larry hadn't known the whole story at that time, but at least he hadn't missed the first abduction and he had suspected what was going on there. Amita and he had wanted to help Charles; they had been worried. Charles however, had distanced himself from them, had all of a sudden been thrown out of his orbit and had left their surroundings at a tremendous speed.

How could they have let that happen?

Though with that only the preconditions had been created. The actual betrayal had begun only later, when he had gone to that congress in Washington. And however much theory told him about Einstein's term of simultaneity. Larry was aware that everything would have happened differently if that one day, the day of the kidnapping, he had stood next to Charles and helped him with his calculations in his office. Instead he had provided the place of the crime without even thinking. He only kept hoping that his mistakes wouldn't have consequences.

Every action is accompanied by a reaction of the same magnitude – one of the most elementary principles of physics. It wasn't possible that these his deeds (or rather his omitted deeds) remained without consequences. And he could not hope that these consequences would have positive effects.

But within which limits would these effects be? A reaction of the same magnitude... but how large had the action been? How grave was the omitted help he hadn't given to Charles?

No matter which way this whole tragedy would end – it was certain that Larry would never forgive himself his conduct.

0 – 0 – 0

It restarted much too soon.

It announced itself first with a threatening rustle. Loud. Charlie wished most ardently to be able to have a bit more rest; just a few more minutes to summon up strength.

They were denied to him.

The water plunged down on him again with all its unopposed force. This was the seventh flood. He had already lived through six of them, had fought his way through them. His reserves were running low, an exponential decay, and the floods had grown in severity. It was an unequal fight; at that a fight for his life.

The water was up to his knees when a wave of determination shot through him. He wasn't going to die in here. He wouldn't die in here without having seen the important people of his life once more. He had already set firmly decided that, he had already sorted it out with himself that he had to fight, that he owed it to them. He wasn't going to betray their faith in him. He'd be strong for them.

The water was up to his throat when his confidence, having reached its peak, collapsed at high speed. What should he fight for after all? For the people who loved him? Why? They wouldn't get to see him anymore anyway, they would never know anything about all this! And would they want him to struggle so hard, for them?

The water was higher than his head and he was forced to keep himself afloat when in the complete darkness around him the images of them lit up. He tried again to support himself against the walls, desperate, in order to somehow remain above the water. He had to survive this, he didn't merely want those images, he wanted the real people. This life here wasn't worth fighting for, that was true, but life with them was worth it. And for them. He wouldn't make them all unhappy just because he'd given up.

He knew that they were looking for him. And he needed this knowledge, he needed it to find some strength from somewhere, to live also through this flood as well. And the next one. And the one after that. As many as would be necessary.

0 – 0 – 0

They tried Ivanov once more. It wasn't that they had much hope of making him talk, but together with Chrushtchov he was still their best chance.

"If you tell us now where the hostage is you'll get off lightly," David tempted him. And provided that Charlie was still alive when they found him, his promise wouldn't be that far away from the truth.

Ivanov however only laughed at him. "Tell me another. Nothing's changed. I'll lead you to him as soon as you set me free."

Colby remained silent and David remained hard. "Forget it. You'd better decide if you prefer to be sentenced for murder or for abduction."

Ivanov didn't answer. His grin lost a bit of its arrogance although he maintained the facade. After all he knew that it might be too late by now. Maybe his hostage was already dead.

0 – 0 – 0

With alarming steadiness, Charlie's panic became something he couldn't control anymore. At least the adrenaline helped him to hold out, but he lacked the calmness in order to capitalise on it. His sensations were a mirror to the forces of nature outside his stony prison: stormy, agitated, restless.

At least there was no water coming through anymore by now; it was high time. He had lost the ground beneath his feet a long time ago. The past minutes had been pure mortal fear. He had already come to terms with the fact that his life could be over and was not sure if he really should renounce this decision already.

Yet no water was filling his cell anymore, but the rustling above him had hardly lost anything of its intensity. Charlie could imagine only too well how things were looking outside. The sea, lashed by the storm, the white spray, the deeply gray sky where dark blue and black cloud rags were chasing one another...

This seventh flood had so far been the worst until now; the water had been higher than during the past floods, the rustling louder, the waves more violent, the fear more immense. And he just couldn't think anymore of anything to do. His mind was empty, all thoughts extinguished by the water and the panic. He didn't know how things were supposed to continue, with further floods, with further suffering. And he hadn't even lived through this one. There was still about thirty minutes to pass until he was going to be able to stand on the ground again.

The temptation to give in became stronger with every passing second. He couldn't do this anymore, he was at the end of his tether, had used all his reserves, and still there was no end in sight. It looked as if things were going to end for him down here after all. He had lived through seven floods. He couldn't hope for more.

It had to be Thursday. That meant... Yeah. If he wasn't mistaken, then this was the 12,109th day of his life. Twelve thousand one-hundred and nine. A prime number. Could he wish for more than having had a prime number of days at his disposal?

Maybe a higher prime number... to live more in these days...

He had almost forgotten the resolution he had made after the last flood. However, deep down in his subconsciousness there was still this bastion of love and hope that would never give in. He had to hold out...

He just didn't know how.

0 – 0 – 0

They continued to question the mobsters, separately, they threatened them, they did things on the verge of legality, they tried every single one of the techniques that were known to them – but it remained a status quo. The mafia-men wanted to be rewarded for their statements, and this reward was their release. Charlie's life in exchange for their freedom.

Don would probably have hardly hesitated for a second and would have agreed to the deal, no matter whether merely pretending or not. He wasn't in charge anymore, however. And O'Connagh wasn't budging from his point of view.

"But they've got Charlie!" Don reminded his colleague, although unnecessarily. "And we don't know for how long he can stay alive! If Ivanov is telling us the truth –"

"That's exactly the point, Don," O'Connagh cut him off. "We can't be sure if he's telling us lies or not. Maybe he doesn't even know where Charlie is?" Mercifully O'Connagh didn't mention the possibility that Charlie might as well be dead by now. He knew that Don too was also aware of that, and there was no need to remind his co-worker of it.

"And even if Ivanov is telling the truth," he continued insistently, "we still can't do it, Don. Those men are criminals. We can't just let them go. If the mafia gets away with it this time, they're going to kidnap our people non-stop in order to get what they want."

"Are you saying you just wanna wait? Do nothing and hope that Charlie survives?"

O'Connagh could hear that his colleague was at breaking point. And if they didn't find Charlie anytime soon he would more than likely cross that point. "Don... Did you listen to their conditions? Their mere demands even before we arrested the others... Picture it. They're released, they make sure they aren't being followed and do then release Charlie – Don, you do realize that they will never stick to that deal. As soon as we release them they'll take off for Mexico or Paraguay."

Don was silent, his gaze lowered.

"Don... it's just not possible. And you know that."

"Of course I know!" Don retorted violently, though became calm again almost instantly. O'Connagh sensed that his co-worker wanted to add something, but it took a while before Don finally found the necessary strength to do so. And even now he needed several attempts for his weak protest: "But... but we can't just... do nothing."

"I'm sorry, Don," O'Connagh answered, and for Don it was as if his friend had thereby just signed Charlie's death sentence.

0 – 0 – 0

Finally, the water had retreated. Fortunately in time because Charlie couldn't do it anymore.

He sank to the floor on to his side. Again the stinging in his knee, it just wouldn't stop... But he couldn't get up, he couldn't move, he couldn't get himself into a more comfortable position. He was too weak, much too weak...

But the stinging became unsupportable. With his eyes closed by exhaustion, and in a dragging struggle, he got free of his jacket and wrapped it around his knee joint. This way the fracture lay at least on a softer ground.

Now, however, he was completely done in. Despite the cold and the wetness his skin glowed. Still he felt cold. Shudders flashed in sudden fits through his body and didn't release him for several seconds until he finally lay still again, weary.

He had difficulties in breathing. His lungs weren't able to fill properly with the valuable oxygen he needed. But he needed air, he needed it to live, he didn't want to die...

He just wanted all of this to end.

Another shudder shot through Charlie and he realized what he had just thought there. He wanted it to end. And he cared less and less in which way. Just let him die – at least the suffering would end then.

0 – 0 – 0

It just didn't make any sense anymore. The longer they questioned the mobsters, the less they knew. They went in circles and gradually didn't know anymore whether they were coming or going or where they where heading to.

By now, they had questioned all mobsters at least once, some of them even three or four times. And they hadn't made any progress. There just wasn't anything, no trail they could follow, no clue, nothing. The members of the two mafia groups weren't making any mistakes; they were self-assured and weren't saying anything. Most of them really didn't seem to know anything. And those who did know something didn't help them either.

Ivanov's and Chrushtchov's statements didn't coincide. In the details such as the amount of water they allegedly had provided their hostage with, their answers differed, and it was apparent that they were lying. The only thing was that the investigators didn't know what the truth was.

Millie might have enjoyed it. It was like poker. The two of them bluffed; they speculated. If they said their hostage hadn't received any water at all, they, with all probability, wouldn't have any bargaining power. If they admitted to giving more water then the law enforcers could hope that there would be enough for them to find Charlie without having to climb into bed with criminals. It was a game. Maybe the two bastards even liked it.

Don hated it.

He hated the helplessness, the feeling of not being able to do anything. He had already hated it at the beginning of the whole case, but now it had grown in intensity. They were simply at an impasse, they weren't getting anywhere... and Charlie had to pay for their inadequacy.

Don's throat grew tight. If they didn't find him soon... He didn't know how Charlie was, but he knew that he couldn't be well. In occasional moments he had noticed signs of nervousness in Ivanov and Chrushtchov and also Megan had been forced to agree with him at this point. And for Don there was only one rational explanation why the two of them could become nervous: because they were afraid that their hostage might have become worthless...

Don bit his lip. The critical time frame of forty-eight hours had been exceeded long time ago. And all around him the people were growing more and more passive. The hectic effort was fading. They didn't have much to do anymore; they only had their useless witnesses; and behind Don's back the suspicion insidiously increased that they wouldn't be able to find Charlie alive...

Don's hands clenched into fists. Yet it was no gesture to show his fighting spirit, it was an expression of desperation. He knew what the others were thinking. And also in him the strength to go on fighting, to continue believing that they might make it despite everything was gradually evaporating in him. He wouldn't give in, no, never, and even if if he had to look for his brother until the end of his life.

He wouldn't turn away from him. He wouldn't run away. However, he also wouldn't be able to go on hoping.

0 – 0 – 0

Charlie coughed. His lungs tried to compensate for this irregularity in his breathing by increased power, but you needed to work for power and energy for work. And Charlie didn't have any more energy left.

Motionless and feeble, he lay on the cold stony floor in his dark hole. He knew that he had a fever, and he could feel that it was high. He was aware that he wasn't going to last for long anymore.

It was only a matter of hours until the next flood. And Charlie had little doubt that he was going to lose his next fight against the water. He even doubted that he would merely be able to pull himself up to a fight.

If he was lucky, they would find him sometime, and maybe that would make it easier for his family and his friends. And although he was terrified of the idea that the beloved persons of his former life would have to identify him on an autopsy table, still the thought of coming back home held something tremendously comforting for him.

A knot grew in his throat while he brought every detail of their faces in front of his mind's eye, one last time. With cold skin, but a warm heart he thought of the hours they had spent together. Trembling and coughing, but with them in his thoughts, he curled himself up in his clammy and dark and silent hole and waited for the end.

* * *

Okay, I know that Charlie's still in that hole and I do realize that I'm stalling. I enjoyed that when I wrote the story (2 years ago?), but now even I think that it's a bit exaggerated. And I promise that there'll happen something besides waiting for the rescue in the next chapter.

Hope you'll be in at it.


	33. Chapter 33

Okay, now I feel compelled to defend myself. When I wrote this story, I didn't realize the period of time that would elapse between one chapter and the following one. I just wrote it as if it had been a normal book. Of course that doesn't make things better for you, I understand that completely. I mean, it's not that I force you to read this. But of course it's important to me to know what you think about the story.

Oh, and by the way, Deanna, I'm pretty well versed with the numbers from 1 to 100, so it didn't elude me that most people obviously don't like the story. I was simply told that it'd be fair to those few readers to see it through until the end.

* * *

**33 – CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE – 1,112³³**

José Sanchez was sitting in a café in downtown, Los Angeles. The small restaurant was well visited. Through the noise of the customers, the newscaster's words that came from the television at the upper room angle could be heard only sporadically. Sanchez however, wasn't at all annoyed by the chatter of the others. On the contrary, he was using the anonymity of the talking around him to bring order to his mind.

He was waiting for his contact. He didn't know the name of this person and they didn't know his real name, only his new one. Since it had been he who had provided him with it along with a new passport that had been inevitable. José had got the contact from one of his new colleagues who had initially needed the passport in order to remain 'legally' in the States. Sanchez didn't have that problem anymore, but the one he had with the Russian Mob wasn't really any more pleasant.

He looked nervously at the wall clock next to the television set. Five o'clock in the afternoon. The local news had just begun. His contact was late. However, according to Sanchez' information he was good. Good, but expensive. Yet, if you had anything to do with the mafia it was wiser to be concerned about quality.

He thought about Zita. He'd had to leave her. It had been difficult for him and they had exchanged endless vows of fidelity. But José had no illusions. They were young, he would be gone for a long time and there were many handsome men in Mexico. It was foreseeable how the whole story would end.

And still he'd had to go. He too, had looked for a pretext to go to the States and earn money. He had seven younger siblings. His father was dead and his mother well on in years. Everyone believed him when he said he was leaving his country to help his family.

Of course his family was important to him. If he had been content there even with the poverty, there might probably have been nothing to call him to the States. He had been fed up with it though. He was fed up with that whole miserable life, the drudgery, hard work for nothing, watching adults as well as children die in the streets whether it was of hunger or due to the drugs. He no longer loved his country, and finally had found it so repulsive that he had escaped to the USA almost in a flash, regardless of his lack of documents.

A little group of six or seven people left the snack-bar chattering loudly and laughing. Without them, the noise level subsided by half. With growing impatience, Sanchez cast another glance at the clock, but his eyes caught the picture of a young man.

José looked at the photo in detail and with a queasy feeling; the hooked nose, the slim face, the clear, blue eyes, the dark blond, short hair, and at the same time he tried to understand the information the female newscaster was giving. He knew this man, and he had a distinct feeling what this was about. And it didn't take long until he found his feeling confirmed: "The FBI continues seeking the public's assistance in the case of the abducted CalSci professor Dr. Charles Eppes. The two presumed culprits are known to the police. They are of Russian origin, have got a slight accent and are about one meter seventy-five and one meter eighty-five respectively. The agency is currently trying to find out the whereabouts of these two persons during the night of Sunday to Monday. Information can be given to any police station or by phone..."

The rest of her words were drowned out when two young men and a woman entered the café. But José had heard enough. So they still hadn't found that young professor. Bad.

José sighed and stared into the void. He didn't know what to do. He really had enough problems already; he didn't really need to worry about some kidnapped professor. Despite everything he still attached a certain value to his life, and that value was higher than that of the life of some complete stranger. And even if he went to the police – it wasn't even sure that his information would help them! Basically that was even quite improbable. After all the mafia had a lot of places they could hide a man. And maybe this man was already dead; one could never know. Would it even be any use? No, he would just endanger himself completely unnecessarily and nobody could be helped by

Probably. But what if...?

For on the other hand it was clear to him what this young man – if he was still alive – was going through right now. He knew this problem. He knew the fear and the hopelessness. He knew the longing for help, the hope for a helping hand, that something would happen, that you were rescued... Could he really do that knowingly to that man, to refuse him his help?

If he helped him, however, there was the risk that the mafia would take revenge on him. But hadn't they said in the news that morning that the FBI had broken up two local groups of the Russian Mafia? And still he couldn't be sure...

But if he helped the Feds, wouldn't they show their appreciation somehow? However, it would probably mean that they would also want him to make a statement against the mafia or be a witness in court. Of course, he had already heard of the witnesses protection programme – but hell, that was no life! Although the period he was living through right now couldn't be described as 'life-worthy' either.

José sighed deeply. He didn't know, he just didn't know what to do. Talk or remain silent? Be brave or cowardly? Stupid or clever?

The picture of the abduction victim came up on the screen. He was a handsome young man with dark curls and seemed nice. He was maybe around thirty, the same age as José. And in the same situation.

José sighed again, then, on the spur of the moment, slammed some coins on the table and then left the restaurant with determination. The more resolute he acted, the better he could hide from himself how insecure he felt with his choice of the stupid way.

0 – 0 – 0

Don sat at the short end of the table. "Aren't you getting tired of these stupid little games? You should know by now that you're only getting yourself into deeper troubles by that."

Ivanov's cool and scornful mask didn't slip for an inch. "Why should I? You too seem unable to learn that you won't get any information from me. If, however –"

"Dismiss that thought," O'Connagh cut him off. "The FBI doesn't make deals with criminals."

"Well – bad luck for you."

Don's hands clenched. He was just about to stand up, to beat the truth out of that bastard's mouth, but forced himself to remain calm. Don't let him provoke you... stay calm... But all of a sudden he wasn't sure if he had really managed to control himself, for he noticed a sudden movement in the room. The next moment he realized with relief that it hadn't been him who had caused this movement, but David who had torn open the door to the interrogation room and who now looked agitated at his two superiors.

"James," he finally chose his boss's boss to address, "we've got something that should help us along." Sceptically O'Connagh looked into David's flustered features. "It could be really important," David urged.

O'Connagh nodded and the three of them left the room, but not without the leader of the team turning around to Ivanov. "We're not done with you yet."

They had hardly closed the door when David started his report, "José Sanchez just called Colby. He's the witness against Kalinkov who went underground. He says he might know where Charlie's being held."

Four wide-open eyes stared at David with a spark of newly born hope. For some moments nobody said a word, and when Don broke the silence, his voice sounded unusually rough. "What are we waiting for?"

Some minutes later Don let his eyes wander in a frantic search across the nearly empty square until he finally spotted their witness. José Sanchez had left a short distance between him and the phone boxes in order to protect himself against the still stormy weather.

Don got out of the car and ran towards him. He, David, Colby and James had hurriedly come here with blue lights flashing, hoping that Sanchez had followed Colby's order and waited for them here at the public phone box from where he had called Colby's number. Don once again spoke a silent prayer of gratitude that it was standard procedure to hand a business card to each witness at the end of an interview 'in case you remember something else'. That set phrase could indeed make lots of things easier and faster.

Don didn't even waste a thought on a greeting. "You know where he's hidden?"

Sanchez seemed a bit intimidated by the four men in their dark suits. "No," he began, and Don thought somebody might have removed the ground from under his feet. He might have collapsed if their witness hadn't gone on at once. "Not know, believe. I know place where they hide men. Hide me too. But am not sure. They have more places to hide. I don't know."

Don's shallow breathing had accelerated, and not only because of his hectic movements. Tensely, he ran his hand through his hair. "Can you lead us to those hiding-places?"

"Think so. Most probable place is on beach. I see it when they let me go."

"Why is this hiding-place the most probable?" O'Connagh interrupted. "What about the other ones?"

"I was hidden four times. Every time other place, two times same, cellar of house. But I see man in television, picture of mafia-man. With this man I be in this place to hide me."

"Ivanov?" David asked hastily. "Do you mean Ilya Ivanov?"

Sanchez tentatively shrugged.

Colby pulled out a wanted person's photo from the inner pocket of his jacket, un-folded it and held it towards the Mexican. "Is it this man?"

"Yes! Yes, that is him! He me hide there!"

"Okay, let's go. David, Colby – you're following us. Don, you're coming with me, and you too, Mr. Sanchez. And now let's go!"

They hurried back to the two SUVs. With blue lights on they headed in the direction of the beach.

"What about those other hiding-places?" O'Connagh asked once more, this time more urgently. If this was going to be proved as a dead end or even a trap, they had to keep open every possibility. They mustn't waste time. They didn't have the time to be wrong. "Where are they?"

"In cellar of house. I be hide two times in same place to hide, in cellar of house, then one time other place, also cellar of house. One near Orpheum Theater and one near Stonewood Shopping Center."

O'Connagh and Don exchanged glances. According to their knowledge the big mafia had bases in both areas, although they hadn't found Charlie there. Sanchez' seemed to be telling the truth.

However, it was still too early to trust him. While over the radio O'Connagh sent one team to each of the two hiding-places to make them thoroughly search once more for Charlie, Don tried to gather more information from the man. "Why did they hide you away? Are you part of their organisation or not?"

Sanchez seemed truly aghast. "No! I not belong to mafia! Mafia bad mans, I not bad man, I –"

Don didn't have the nerves to let the Mexican drone out assurances of his innocence. "So, why?"

Sanchez flinched. Hesitantly, but willingly he gave further details. "I see how man kill other man. First man mafia. Tell me not to go to police. I say I not go to police, I never go to police, I illegal. Mistake to say. Man think I not defend me, and bring me to other man and this other men me give work. Bad work, do things against police. For example I must talk to people who want to come to USA from Mexico and other countries. When I not want to do, he me put in place to hide. And one time men from picture me put in hole. I be in hole for one day and one half before man from picture come take me out."

So that was it! Sanchez had watched a member of the mafia commit a murder and had been brought to the boss. The Mexican had had to do various jobs, for instance, make contact with those involved in people trafficking. And when Sanchez hadn't done as he'd been told, Bolshoyov had ordered someone to make him cooperate again, amongst them, Ivanov. And maybe Ivanov had brought Sanchez to the hiding-place where he now held Charlie. "What hole? What do you mean by that?"

In that moment Don would have loved to know more Spanish than the few words and phrases he did know. Their witness seemed to have difficulty in expressing himself understandably and in describing the hiding-place. "Place to hide is hole under... under stone. Cave, hole in cave. No light. And cold. And when sea comes, water comes in hole and even colder."

As if on cue Don shuddered. That didn't sound good. If he understood this Mexican right Charlie was in some kind of well that was flooded regularly. And if he had been in this well since the night from Sunday to Monday... then that made seven to eight floods!

_Oh, Charlie..._

Don's gaze wandered to the outside, across the sky where now the last remnants of the storm swam through the air. How much had his brother noticed of that storm? The question was important for two reasons; one, it could tell him how bad Charlie's situation was, and two, how bad he was.

The rest of the drive they were silent. All of them were much too tense to make sensible conversation.

"I think up there!"

O'Connagh followed the direction Sanchez told him. They drove along the beach. Sanchez had seemed unsure several times, but now new determination had entered his voice.

There were no houses here. The ground was too insecure; it was uneven and stony. Sand and scree alternated providing dangerous traps for the steps of walkers.

"Stop! I remember! Has to be somewhere here!"

The two SUVs came to a halt and the five men got out. Sanchez tried to get an overview. "There!" he then called, extending his arm to the right. He started running and the others hastened to follow him.

Five minutes later, after they had climbed down a little hill and were already standing in the sea water, Sanchez pointed towards a rock in front of them, and when he looked at it more thoroughly, Don noticed the dark opening. In front of them, there was a cave.

Without further hesitation he walked ahead. Three circles of torch light joined his, jumping across the walls and the ground of the surprisingly big cave, while they made their way on through the stony vaults. From above, this hiding-place couldn't be seen. If Sanchez hadn't come to them, they might never have found it.

Suddenly, the cone of light of one of the torches caught something that didn't fit into the general aspect; a metal plate in the floor. A sign that people had been here. And a clue that something might be hidden underneath.

Don's heartbeat accelerated. They were so close, so close... There couldn't be any doubt anymore, Charlie had to be here, they had as good as found him, he'd be with them within seconds...

The five of them lifted the metal slab and pulled it with a screech and squeak over the stony floor until the opening before them became visible. They picked up their torches again and shone them down to the ground of a nearly four meter deep well.

Don felt sick at what he saw.


	34. Chapter 34

Wow. Thanks a lot for your reviews. Didn't see that coming.  
So I'm all the more sorry to disappoint you once again. There will be (only) Charlie-hospital-scenes (yes, in the plural form) and scenes of coping with the aftermath. There are only a couple of chapters left, so let's just get this over with. If you're of notsing's opinion, just have a nice laugh.  
Anyway, please enjoy.

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34 – CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR – 1,109^34

It was Charlie.

Curled up, he lay there, motionless, his face unnaturally pale in the cold light of the torches.

"Charlie," Don whispered, choking. Time was passing immensely slowly. In a fraction of a second Don took in every detail of the scene before him; a picture that would be burnt forever into his mind. His little brother was in a rectangular hole whose surface wasn't even two square meters, curled up, his skin pale and cold and lifeless. Shining dampness glowed on the gray stone around him. The dark curls were wet, sticking to his clammy forehead. The red T-shirt, the same in which he had told them about the Janus List an eternity ago, intensified the pale impression and also stuck wetly to the gaunt body that lay on the floor as if dead.

Without further hesitation Don jumped down and bent down over his little brother. From down here the picture of Charlie wasn't really better. He didn't look good, not good at all... He was haggard, his cheeks sunken, gray. Just like the stone he was lying on, only paler.

Don halfway extended his hands towards him. They were trembling violently. He didn't know what to do with them. But his sub consciousness also worked without him. It made him take Charlie's face in his hands. He could feel how cold the cheeks were under his own more or less warm fingers, and desperation dominated the whispers that were suffocated by his tears, "Please Charlie, please wake up! Please! Please wake up! You can't just leave me alone! Please don't do that to me, please don't!"

But Charlie's face didn't show any motion. The pale face didn't even so much as twitch.

Frantically, Don's trembling hand searched its way to Charlie's carotid. With growing desperation his finger jumped from one point to another on the icy-cold skin, searching for a pulse, a sign that his heart was still beating.

Nothing.

Panic wanted to take hold of him. He couldn't feel anything, no sign of life. Don had to summon up all his strength not to be overcome by his fear. His breathing was shallow.

"Come on! Wake up, Charlie! _Come on!_"

His fervent begging wasn't heard by a soul. "Please Charlie, don't be dead! Please, don't be dead!"

Tears were running down his tense cheekbones. His hand flew over Charlie's ribcage. It just couldn't be! Charlie couldn't be dead! Don would have done anything to prevent that!

He just wanted to try to reanimate him, to breathe life into him, to bring him back, when he thought he saw something move; a slight heaving of the ribcage.

"Charlie?"

This time Don laid his trembling hand over Charlie's heart. _Oh please, make it beat! Please, please, make that he's not dead, pleas..._

There – what was that?

Don thought his own heart had come to a standstill while he desperately hoped to feel his brother's beat. Now! Hadn't there been something? Yes? No?

Tears were running down Don's face, tears of relief.

Charlie's heart was beating!

It didn't feel strong, but at least it was beating, albeit slowly and faintly.

"Oh my God, Charlie," Don choked. He was sick with relief. Charlie's heart was beating, he was alive, they weren't too late!

"He's alive!" he shouted upwards and hardly noticed how weak his cracking voice sounded. "He's alive," he then whispered silently for himself and closed his eyes behind which the tears continued to well. Before he set his eyes again on Charlie with eagerness, he whispered a choked "Thank You".

0 – 0 – 0

Alan stared through the window down into the endless depths. His gaze and his spirits lowered, though the windows and the walls of the plane prevented his body from following them.

Somewhere down there, deep below him, there were his two sons. The thought was almost comforting. Somewhere down there the two of them were there – a few miles in one direction or another didn't make a difference. They were there and he was on his way to them. Soon they would be together again. From up here, everything looked fine. Problems? Of course not.

But Alan didn't manage to fool himself. He had been down there himself; he knew what it was like there. He knew that down there a few miles did, very well, make a difference – especially when you didn't know in which direction these miles had to be made in order to reunite them all.

For nearly twelve hours, for half a day, he hadn't heard anything from Don. Of course not, after all he was sitting on a plane. And his last piece of information had been that the groups had been shattered, but Charlie still hadn't been found.

Should he be relieved at that news or not?

And what had happened in the meantime? _Maybe nothing_, a voice in Alan's head said and irrationally it sounded a bit hopeful. If nothing had happened then there wouldn't be any bad news. If there were still no answers then there was still a reason to hope.

Subconsciously, he shook his head. All this was so... so unreal, so unbelievably unbelievable. It was as if he was beginning to realize everything just now: Charlie had been abducted. Full four days ago. And somewhere in the much too truth-loving depths of his mind Alan was aware that four days was much too long a period.

The plane landed a bit roughly on the runway. The remnants of the storm of the past two days were still perceptible. But Alan didn't bother much, he was only glad that the plane had managed to take off in the first place; in the direction of the storm... in the direction of home... in the direction of his family.

Even while Alan was hurrying towards the baggage pickup he tried to reach his eldest son. Without success. His mobile was turned off and nobody was answering the phone in his office.

In front of the airport building, Alan fought his way into a taxi. Quite a few minutes later he stood in the elevator on the way to the floor where Don's office was, a visitor's badge around his neck. The doors slid apart and through the hustle and bustle he tried to catch a glimpse of a familiar face.

He was successful. Determined, he went towards Megan. On his way towards her he noticed, subconsciously, the pale faces of Amita and Larry. He remembered dimly that Don had told him about their collaboration with the case; the presence of all of them, however, wasn't his priority at the moment. "Where is Charlie?"

Megan's head jerked around and her eyes widened. "Alan! …How did you –"

"Where is my son?"

None out of the four of them knew of which of his sons Alan was talking, but there was a certain hope that the answer would be the same in either case, if only Megan had known it. "I don't really know, Alan. But they've got a lead. They're supposed to be calling at any moment." _To inform us that they've found him_, she specified silently for herself. She didn't consider it advisable though to raise their father's hopes unnecessarily.

The father. That was it. That was why Megan had hardly recognized Alan. Not because of her weeks in Washington. The person standing in front of her was at this moment more than ever the father of the Eppes brothers. The father worrying for his anxious son searching for his kidnapped brother. And of course, he was the father frightened for his abducted son. And all of a sudden Megan felt completely lost. All the training she'd had wasn't enough to prepare her for this, for the conversation with the father of two of her former colleagues, the father of a victim of abduction.

The ringing of the phone saved her from seeking for insufficient words of consolation. "Reeves." She dared a quick glance at Alan before lowering her eyes again. "Okay," she said into the receiver, but her features told everyone that nothing was okay. "Alright, I'm gonna pass that information on. Thanks, Martin. See you."

After she hanged up, she stared for some further seconds at the phone, lost in thoughts, before directing her words to Larry, Amita and Alan, "That was someone from O'Connagh's team. They were in one of the apartments Sanchez talked about. Charlie wasn't there."

The three of them lowered their heads. "And what does that mean?" Alan asked quietly.

"That doesn't have to mean anything," Megan tried to placate them all. "There are still two further potential places where they could have imprisoned Charlie. We've got to –"

Once again the phone rang. "Reeves. – Yes. Yes, I see. Thanks, Vicky. – No; that is, Martin's called but the others haven't yet. Maybe they're having more luck. – Yes, see you."

It appeared to them as some sort of déjà-vu when Megan again began to speak, "The others haven't found anything either."

Alan shook his head slightly. "What... what is happening here? What does all of this mean?"

"We got a clue earlier, Alan," Megan explained to him. He and the two other silent observers admired her for the calmness of her voice. "Someone who has also been held by the mafia was able to tell us about three of their hiding-places. Our colleagues have now more thoroughly searched two of the ones we already knew about, but didn't find anything. Don, David, Colby and James O'Connagh however have gone with the witness to a hiding-place that was hitherto unknown to us."

For the first time Megan hesitated, and she chose her words with increased care, "We don't consider it unlikely that Charlie is being held in this last hiding-place or at least that he had been there once."

Alan stared at the three of them one after the other. "That means... that means you know where he is?"

"Not with absolute certainty," Amita admitted in a low voice. Despite the quietness of her voice it was very noticeable how much her voice was trembling. "But at least it sounds hopeful that this hiding-place exists in the first place. The mobster's activities hint at a more or less regularly visited location in this area. In hindsight you can see that there's a pattern where the hiding-places can be found." Her eyes began to fill with tears, certainly not for the first time this week, and she had to pause for a moment to collect herself a bit, before she could go on. "There is a pattern there," she repeated, sounding a bit pressed. "But we just didn't see it. If we had noticed it earlier –"

"Amita, you two have done your best," Megan admonished her gently, but determinedly. She was still looking for more words when Larry ruined her efforts.

"And what if that isn't enough?" he asked quietly and there was suddenly a tense and shocked silence in which he continued his much too realistic thoughts, "Have you... have you considered the possibility that they may arrive too late?"

The answer was clear. Of course all of them had thought about that, but always only briefly, always only for a fraction of a second. They had always managed to put that ugly and treacherous thought aside in order to make space for hope.

"We'll know it soon," Megan said with new determination and with a rough voice.

Alan nodded and swallowed. There wasn't anything lost yet. They could still be hopeful for Don and the others. They just had to wait.

Already after five minutes of wearing silence Alan wondered if it hadn't been a mistake after all to come back. While Megan silently sifted through some files, Amita and Larry seemed to feel just as helpless as he himself. He had thought he'd be closer to the action and that it would help him to cope with the situation. And indeed he did feel a bit closer to everything – even if it was a 'mere' 2,250 miles – and still he couldn't say that this was of any help to him. His tension was even greater than in Baltimore; he was jittery.

His senses were sharpened to the upmost and at the same time strangely numb. Due to the lack of having a useful activity he observed his fellow-sufferers. His mind was so caught up in worry his view was narrowed down to noticing all the small things in front of his eyes, though missing an overview. He noticed Amita's reddened eyes, her dry lips. It was obvious that it wasn't a long time ago since she had been crying. Neither did he miss the dark circles under Larry's wide-open eyes. Not only work, but also worry had had to have been keeping him awake for the most time of the past days and nights. And he also saw the furrows on Megan's forehead and the looks she was throwing every few seconds at the phone. He realized that she was trying to concentrate, that she wanted to hide her fear and tension from them.

Alan now followed Megan's example, staring at the phone. It had to, it just had to ring some time, soon, now...

When an electronic melody broke in on their thoughts, Alan almost thought that his telephone hypnosis might have had an effect. That he wasn't that useless after all, but he realized his mistake when Megan didn't answer the desk phone, but tore her mobile out of her jacket. "Yes, Colby?"

The three literally hung on every one of Megan's words, and on her eyes and on her features. There – hadn't they relaxed, wasn't that a relieved smile about to spread on her mouth? No... no, it couldn't be; for now her forehead was furrowed again, her eyes widened; she swallowed. "Okay. Thanks, Colby." Her voice sounded sore. "We'll meet there."

She hung up and lifted her gaze, looking into the three tense faces in front of her. She had to breathe deeply before she found the strength to speak. "They've found Charlie. He's alive."

0 – 0 – 0

Half an hour after the first signs of life from Charlie in four days, Don was standing in front of the swing doors leading to the emergency entrance, breathing shallowly. When they had finally lifted Charlie's slack body out of his hole with ropes, the ambulance had already arrived. Later, Don could only remember two things of the drive to the hospital: one, that it had taken much too long and two, that he would never be able to ban that one picture from his memory: Charlie's pale face that only stood out against the white sheet under him thanks to his dark curls.

Here the medics had left him. Here he had left Charlie. The thought made Don shudder. _I'm with you, Charlie,_ he thought with effort, _don't give in, you hear me? I'm with you. Always._

A white coat rushed past him and made him stagger out of his trance and over to the waiting area. He stumbled towards a chair, suddenly so weak on his legs that he only desired to be finally able to rest. When he eventually sat, he took his head in his hands, trying to become clear thinking again.

He failed miserably.

And not for the first time.

It was his fault that all this was happening. He shouldn't have allowed Charlie to stay in Los Angeles after the first abduction. He shouldn't even have let it happen that he was working on the case in the first place. He shouldn't even have let it happen that Charlie had ever worked for him. He shouldn't have given way to Charlie. He should have remained strong. He shouldn't have been so selfish; he should have rejected Charlie's help and collaboration. He shouldn't have been glad to work with his brother.

Don drew in the sterile hospital air through his nose. _You haven't been that innocent either, Chuck_, he thought while a desperate smile tried to struggle its way onto his face. Charlie would just have made his life harder; he used to be so good at that. He should have prevented Don from appreciating working with him so much.

He hadn't done that though, and that was why he was lying in there, struggling for his life.

_Why not?_ Don wondered and suddenly felt slightly irritated. _Why didn't you simply stop when you had the opportunity? The withdrawal of your security clearance should've been an excellent excuse..._

But Charlie hadn't stopped working with Don. He had continued, on and on, even illegally. And nobody had forced him to, on the contrary.

_He did it voluntarily_, Don suddenly realized. _But why?_

Again he sniffed. Again that affectionate, but so desperate smile that went unnoticed by everybody and couldn't console a soul. Why, he asked? He of all persons should know, _did_ know. He himself had made it his job, that task Charlie performed only on a part time basis. Apparently he wasn't so unlike his brother after all.

But still – why hadn't Charlie just realized the danger? Why hadn't he taken the appropriate measures? Why had he been so silly...

As if out of nowhere he suddenly heard Charlie's voice. _Trust me, it's best if I stay..._ It seemed to have been an eternity ago that they had sat on that park bench... _Just stop worrying. Nothing will happen to me, for sure..._

How the hell could he have been so stupid to believe that?


	35. Chapter 35

Hi again!  
Thanks a lot for your reviews! With those nice comments posting really is more fun.

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**35 – CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE – 1,107^****35**

A hand was laid upon his upper arm and his head jerked upwards, as if the touch had pulled a secret trigger.

"Dad."

The sound came out of his throat, hoarse and suffocated. He stood heavily and returned his father's strong embrace, seeking support. After some seconds' silence they separated again.

"How are you?"

Don's answer had already left his mouth. "Bad," he had intended to say because he had thought his father was asking about Charlie. Now he'd said it nevertheless and even had to realize that it was true. He indeed felt like crap. "But not half as bad as Charlie."

The sounds came out of his mouth strained and without him really having intended to speak them out loud. Alan looked at him closely, his face filled with worry and not only because of one of his son's condition. "What are they saying?"

Don shook his head. "Nothing." The doctors wouldn't tell him anything, not a single word. Yet, when he thought about what they might say if they said something, he wondered if he shouldn't be glad about their silence after all.

"Don –"

"I don't know more than that, Dad!"

It was only now that he noticed Amita, Megan and Larry who were watching him tensely. On their faces, especially in Amita's and Larry's, there was an expression that made shudders run through Don's body: fear. They had to know that Charlie was here, had to know that he was still alive, but they were realistic enough, so they were filled with fear.

Don slowly turned his head when his father tried once more to get something out of him, and with a queasy feeling in his stomach he realized that there was that very same expression on his father's face.

"But how... I mean... what... what exactly happened, Donnie? Did you see him? How is he?"

Don shook his head, a useless attempt to get rid of the images that, at Alan's words, had pushed themselves into the foreground of his mind again.

"We... he was lying –"

Don broke off. He couldn't do that to his father. He couldn't describe to him the horror scene in all its tormenting details.

"He was unconscious," he said instead and saw Charlie's pale, marble-like face again in front of his eyes. Saw how it didn't even so much as flinch when his own hands had desperately tried to raise him back to life. "And he had a bandage round his leg." Again he saw Charlie's knee with his shirt knotted around it. Saw himself cautiously tear away Charlie's jacket from under the injury and laying it over his brother. Saw himself taking off his own jacket and laying it over the first one then taking Charlie's much too light body into his arms so that they could be pulled out with the rope...

"What kind of injury, Donnie? Did he lose any blood? Is he going to make it, Donnie?"

"I don't know!"

Abruptly, Don turned away, tearing his shoulders out of his father's hands.

That was followed by a tense silence. Nobody dared making a sound. Megan watched the others with her sharp, silent gaze. Larry stared without interruption at the door to the emergency admission. Alan stared at Don. Don strode restlessly up and down the sterile corridor. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see Amita trembling. Eventually it was she who couldn't bear the tension any longer.

"What will happen now?" she whispered nervously, looking from one to the other.

"Well, nothing at the moment, as far as we're concerned," Megan answered, and her calm, steady voice trembled only a tiny bit. "We simply have to wait."

Again waiting. Alan didn't know how the others could bear it. He, in any case, was sure he was going to be torn apart from the inside. _Simply_ wait? Megan had to be very confused right now. But who would hold it against her.

In any case this was one of the most difficult things Alan had ever done in his life. Or rather make that not done. For it didn't elude him, by any means, how useless he was. There was simply nothing he could do. He couldn't go in there and bring Charlie back to life, he couldn't perform miracles. He couldn't complain at the doctors so that they would do their job faster.

He couldn't even be there for Donnie.

His eldest son looked terrible. His eyes were still reddened and Alan wondered dimly when was the last time he had seen Don cry? He couldn't remember. That, however, could also be due to the fact that he momentarily couldn't think straight.

_Please, Charlie, please come back to us, keep fighting, please..._

With abrupt panic the question crossed Alan's mind of what would happen if the unthinkable happened. If Charlie in there lost his fight...

He was strongly tempted to put that thought aside, but he couldn't manage to anymore. The answer was just there. If Charlie didn't make it, it was clear that Alan would never again be happy in his life. Maybe he would manage to return to something like an everyday life at sometime. Maybe he would be able to pretend to others that everything was all right. Maybe he would be able to laugh again in some distant point in the future. But he'd never be happy again.

It was even worse than with Margaret. Not only had he been able to say goodbye to her, even though he'd expected to die before his wife, some mostly latent fears of being left alone had prepared him for her death at least a little bit. It hadn't been much, but at least enough to be able to consider also his life after her death liveable.

But now...

It'd simply be too unsupportable, a too cruel perversion of fate. Children weren't supposed to die before their parents. That was not the way nature was organized. Nature hadn't provided parents with the strength to bear such a loss.

It was clear, Charlie couldn't die. It was just a fact. And Charlie knew that and nature knew that. And nature worked logically; Charlie had tried to explain that to him often enough. Charlie wouldn't die, simply because it wasn't possible.

Now it was only necessary to hope that Alan wasn't mistaken. Hope and pray. At some point all this would have an end, and it would be a happy end. Hopefully, they would make it, they just had to be patient, just have patience...

"Oh God, I can't do this anymore!"

Amita's words sounded with a small sob and were difficult to understand. However, everyone could understand her when she hastily rushed down the white corridor to the outside, the back of her hand pressed over her trembling lips.

The four who remained stared after her.

"I guess I'd better follow her," Larry stammered; he had already turned away from them as if he couldn't escape fast enough from the sterile and impersonal waiting-area.

Don heard Megan sigh in a low voice. He could tell from her face that she was struggling with herself. Should she follow the two of them? Eventually, she stayed. _Probably it's better this way_, Don thought to himself. If they got bad news, she'd probably be the only one who'd be able to pass it on to the others.

_Now stop that, damn!_ There wouldn't be any bad news! Charlie would make it, he'd make it, damn it!

_But if not..._

All of a sudden Don was so tired and weak that he could hardly support himself on his trembling legs. He shuffled back to the chairs in the waiting-area and lowered himself down on to one of them. He just couldn't go on, already for such a long time it had been too much. And now that they'd finally made it, now that they'd finally found Charlie, he still couldn't rest. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Charlie's expressionless, stony face, lifeless and cold and motionless and dead...

_Please, please don't let him die, please don't... I couldn't bear that... please keep him alive... he's done nothing bad..._

But Charlie himself was responsible for the situation. If he hadn't insisted on going on working on the case, if he'd gone with their father to Baltimore... It was Charlie's own fault.

It was Don's fault, totally Don's fault, and he knew it. He should have insisted more strictly that Charlie quit the case. He shouldn't have allowed him to again mess with the mafia, he should have protected him, he shouldn't have let it come to that.

He should never ever have let it happen. He should have protected Charlie. He shouldn't have taken his eyes off him, not for a second. All this was his fault, completely his fault. And maybe Charlie would never have the opportunity of forgiving him because he wouldn't survive Don's mistake.

Don's heart contracted. He couldn't imagine it. He just couldn't imagine a world without his brother. Charlie had to live, anything other than that was not possible. It couldn't be that Charlie simply wouldn't be there anymore, only Alan and Don, the only surviving dependants of a once happy family. And Charlie wouldn't be there anymore, he just wouldn't be there anymore, never again. If Charlie died... _Please, please don't let him die, please don't... I can't take that, please... he has to live, please... he's done nothing bad..._

But it was Charlie's own responsibility. It was Charlie's fault, Charlie's...

It was Don's fault, only Don's fault...

"Donnie."

Don jerked up. He must have fallen asleep. The image of an old man came into his blurry field of view. Don wiped his fingers over his eyes – he could feel the salt in the corners – and recognized the old man as his father.

"Donnie, the doctor's got Charlie's medical report." Alan's voice was trembling. Only now Don noticed the second man, younger than Alan in blue scrubs. "I wanted you to hear it at once," Alan continued and his voice was just about to break. "I don't believe I could tell you if he –"

Don pressed his father's hand strongly and Alan fell silent. Expectantly the younger Eppes looked into the doctor's eyes, trying to decipher his expression. "How is he?" he finally asked when he couldn't bear the tension any longer. His own voice frightened him; it sounded hoarse, cold. As if it already knew the answer.

"Well, good news first: he's alive. I don't want any misconceptions however. Your son and brother was brought to us in a very weak condition. He is very undernourished and dehydrated. We're trying to remedy that by putting him on a respirator and giving him nourishment and especially fluids to, but I'm afraid I have to tell you that for the moment we don't know if he's going to make it."

The doctor waited for a moment to let the sentence take its effect. As if from far away Don could feel the information trickling into his brain, but he resisted against thinking about it any further. "What else?" he urged with a rough voice.

The doctor looked at the two pale men standing in front of him and then briefly to the ground before he went on. "The problem is that his organism has been weakened further by the pneumonia which has placed a severe stress on his heart. However, due to his fragile constitution, we can't administer antibiotics yet. We're doing what we're able to, though." He looked again into the file in his hand. His voice became more objective, "Aside from that, we've got some grazes, hematomas and a clean transversal fracture of his patella which, however, will with all probability heal without permanent damage."

_Presuming that Charlie survives,_ Don added silently while the doctor left them. It wasn't until they had shaken hands that Don realized how much his were trembling.

His eyes were two lost windows to his soul, he looked at his father. "What... what does that mean?"

Alan was silent.

Don didn't give up. "Is it good or bad?" His own voice sounded strange to his ears. Where did this sudden insecurity come from? Why didn't he know anymore what to do? Why wasn't he able to encourage the others anymore? Why was he so afraid...

"I don't know."

Don had to sit down. His knees buckled. _I don't know._ That wasn't the answer he had been hoping for. More something like, 'It is good, Charlie's gonna be fine, Donnie, you'll see.' But no, 'I don't know.' Right into his face. Like he'd been punched with a fist. Why on Earth had his father done that to him?

Don knew that there was only one explanation: it was the truth. His father couldn't bring himself to lie to him, because a lie would show itself soon nevertheless. Namely, exactly the moment when Charlie died.

_It would have been better if you'd given me hope,_ Don thought with something like desperate defiance. _If Charlie dies, I probably won't care if you lied to me or not._

"I guess I'll tell the others," Megan murmured, and if Don had cared, he would have probably pricked up his ears in order to understand her. The way things were, however, he hardly perceived her disappearing towards Larry and Amita, leaving his father and him alone.

The two men remained silent and waited – waited for something to happen, anything. Time didn't pass. It had turned into a glutinous mass that stuck persistently to the present and, hardly noticeable, went on flowing past inch by inch. It was unstoppable, but moved much too slowly. That substantial change made it impossible for Don to find out how much of this time had passed. His inner clock was completely in a mess. When Megan came back, she could've been gone ten minutes as well as ten months according to Don's inner clock. The only thing he could be certain of was that she had come back with Larry and Amita, and Don couldn't keep himself from thinking that they were probably there in case that the worst might happen.

Don hardly took notice of the three of them until Megan spoke to him, "I've called David," she informed him. She waited until he had tiredly lifted his head before she went on, "He, Colby and O'Connagh's team are currently closing the case. Sanchez is making a statement against members of the mafia, including Ivanov, because of his abduction. Thanks to Sanchez' statement Ivanov will also probably be charged with Charlie's abduction."

Don didn't know exactly why, but all of a sudden he felt anger surging up inside him. And Megan's calmness only increased the burning sensation. "Charlie can equally make a statement against Ivanov," he replied sharply.

Megan was silent and Don didn't have to be psychic to know what she was thinking. Nevertheless, the rising fury made him want her to say it. "What?"

Megan breathed deeply. She had to know what Don was doing right now, but she was trying to maintain her composure. "I also hope that Charlie will be able to make a statement against Ivanov. But for the moment he isn't able to do so and apart from that we don't know... how much he saw."

"And if he's gonna make it, am I right? Is that what you're thinking?" Don had to control himself in order not to attack her. "You're only afraid that if he dies you'll have one less witness against Ivanov; you're only interested in the case! David and Colby also have nothing better to do than close the case! You don't care a damn that it's Charlie who's lying in there!"

Megan was a strong woman, but you could tell from her face that she was close to tears. It was just too much...

Still, she might probably have defended her behavior and her colleagues' if Alan hadn't got in ahead of her: "Don, Megan came here from Washington to help Charlie and you. And if I'm not mistaken your colleagues are doing exactly what you would normally do, too."

Don stared at his father as if he came from another planet. He would have expected to hear these words from almost anybody, but not from his father, not from _Charlie's_ father. Don had always thought that at least Alan understood.

"But this isn't 'normally', Dad." The forced calmness made his voice sound pressed. "Don't you see what's happening here? They've already given up on Charlie! They don't care –"

"They do, Don, and you know that," Alan interrupted him.

Also Megan had finally found her voice again; it was low, but determined. "When I spoke to David, his first question was 'how's Charlie?'. The two of them would be here if they could be of any use, and you know that. And as soon as O'Connagh doesn't need them anymore, they'll come here."

Don wouldn't have needed anything more in order to realize how inadequate his words had been, and when Amita spoke he would have loved it if the Earth could open up and swallow him whole.

"We haven't given up on Charlie. And –" she had to swallow. Yet Don realized that his reproaches had apparently hurt her enough to make her go on. "And – and we do care for him."


	36. Chapter 36

Hi back! And thanks a lot for your kind reviews! Seems as if you like Don-blame... well, no problem, you can get more of that ;)  
Please enjoy.  
(Warning: There will be a lot of hospital scenes now and not much action. I hope you like it nevertheless.)

* * *

**36 – CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX – 1,105^****36**

"Anyone here for Charles Eppes?"

Five heads jerked up and five pairs of eyes looked with fearful questions into the face of a woman around fifty years old. They had been silent for an eternity and had only been living for the next second, always hoping to finally get an answer to the question of whether Charlie was going to survive; waiting until at some point the world around them almost faded away.

The woman scrutinized the five tense faces. "Family members?" she clarified her question neutrally, though with a slight smile that bravely tried to bring a bit of warmness into the cold hospital corridors. With a slightly confused gaze she looked at the people in front of her who were hardly likely to all belong to the patient's family. One of them wore an FBI-jacket. But he couldn't seriously be thinking that he'd be allowed to question her patient now?

Then, however, she noticed that the FBI-man looked rather worn-out and as concerned as the others. So maybe his presence wasn't merely official after all? Well, maybe she'd soon find out.

He and the eldest of the men had stood up. With the latter she didn't need the explanation. "I'm his father. The others may hear what you're going to say."

The doctor nodded. "Very well. I'm Dr Porter, and I'm treating Mr Eppes. You can see him now."

Instinctively, a flash of a long lost feeling, something like joy, shot through Don before it became obvious to him that the news didn't have to be necessarily good. "How... how is he?" he heard himself say.

Dr Porter glanced quickly at the floor before she forced herself to look into the tense faces. "I don't want to give you false hope." Don briefly wondered if doctors were taught such sentences in training, but his attention immediately went back to Dr Porter's words. "He's in a critical state. We don't know if he'll make it through the night."

A roaring filled Don's ears. Had that woman actually just said that Charlie could just be gone within the next few hours?

Don thought that the ground was being pulled away from under his feet. His surroundings were turning in front of his eyes. In a reflex gesture, his fingers clung to the nearest thing they could reach. After some seconds his field of vision became clearer again, the roaring gradually subsided and he realised he was clutching his father's forearm. The doctor's voice became clearer as she answered a question posed by one of the others.

"...worried about most is his heart. It's under a lot of stress because of the pneumonia and the weakened condition of the organism. The malnourishment itself isn't really a problem and with all probability a pneumonia on its own wouldn't have grave consequences. However, the combination of these two factors, together with the dehydration... I really can't tell you anything concrete at the time being."

"But we can see him?" Don could only guess that it had to be his father's voice.

Dr Porter nodded. "Yes. But only ten minutes in every hour, and only one person at a time."

All of them agreed that Alan should go first. And Alan didn't have enough strength left to resist. Even Amita had let him go first without hesitation though it was clear to all of them that she would be the second. Of course, they could have split the time, but Amita had been against it. Ten minutes – that was six hundred seconds, and she knew that six hundred seconds were quickly over. No, after everything that had already happened or rather not happened between her and Charlie, Alan had the right to the full time.

Time, however, didn't exist anymore as soon as Alan stepped into the ICU. He was nervous. In few seconds he was going to see his son, for the first time after nine much too long days. He hadn't had a good feeling about leaving his sons when he'd flown alone into safety and left them both to deal with the situation without him. He had feared that something might go wrong. It would have been better if he'd listened to his father's instinct.

The first thing Alan noticed was how still Charlie was. It was such an unusual sight that he at first wasn't sure if the motionless figure in that death-like rigidity in the bed was really his son. When he came nearer, however, there was no doubt left: Charlie's curls, his features, his skeletal figure... It was indeed his ever active son who was lying so motionlessly here, oblivious to his surroundings.

The tears Alan had successfully repressed until this moment now ran down his cheeks to the corners of his mouth that had twisted to a slight smile. Charlie was here. He was lying directly in front of him. He was alive even if that didn't seem very evident at the moment.

Alan stood at the head of the bed and stroked his youngest son's forehead. It was very warm, hot with fever. He had hoped for a reaction, anything, even a movement under his eyelids, anything that would have proved to him that Charlie's body was still functioning. But there was nothing.

He gently took Charlie's hand in his. His gaze ran over to the other hand into which a needle was pinned then his gaze continued wandering from there, along the up to the bag. An IV. His youngest son was lying motionlessly in a clinically white hospital bed, wearing an oxygen mask and pierced by an IV while every sign of life he gave was being recorded and measured by the machines and screens around him.

Alan gently shook his head. This wasn't possible. It was all wrong. Charlie shouldn't be lying here. Charlie should be in front of his blackboards calculating or delivering a lecture or sitting with them at the dining table laughing... Alan saw in front of his inner eye the longed-for images. At the same time he saw the truth that totally blew those wished-for images out of his mind.

This was his fault. Alan knew it, and denying it would not only have been a betrayal, but also cowardly. He shouldn't have allowed Don and Charlie to stay with those mafia groups, even less when he himself was safe. He was their father for God's sake! A father was meant to protect his children! And everyone who saw Charlie could note easily that Alan had failed.

Fifty minutes later it was Amita's turn. Out of a sense of duty she had asked the others if they should not split the time at their disposal. She had been terribly relieved when the other four had refused. She was going to have Charlie to herself. For six hundred seconds. For a sixth of an hour.

When Alan had returned, nobody had missed how haggard he looked. They all had been tactful however, so that they hadn't asked him any questions, even if the urge had been hard to resist. But in general they had all the information they needed and Amita knew anyhow that it would be difficult for her to see the man she loved like this.

She wasn't mistaken. It was difficult, and for some seconds she remained motionlessly at the door of the room. Even from here she could guess how pale Charlie was. And then all that machinery around him, the oxygen mask... This wasn't the Charlie she knew.

Hesitantly, she drew nearer, having to force herself to take every single step. Eventually, she stood at his bedside and the sight of him was almost enough to make her collapse. Instead, she merely lowered herself onto a chair next to the bed trying to ignore that without the monitors she wouldn't see any signs of life from Charlie.

Lightly as a feather she laid her hand upon his. At first she was relieved that the skin was warm, that Charlie was really alive, until she couldn't stop herself noticing that the hand was too warm. With increasing preoccupation she stroked his forehead with the fingertips of her other hand. Also too warm. He had a fever. But compared to the complicated machinery around her, Amita found her diagnosis 'fever' to be pretty obvious.

However, her examination had made her realize that she had missed that. She had missed Charlie, to see him, scrutinize him, to touch him. To talk to him. For a brief instance, Amita lowered her gaze before she came to terms with what she could get and not to mourn for what she couldn't. With immense softness, she stroked Charlie's forehead and cheeks, glad for every square centimeter of skin she could caress.

She could feel the lump in her throat rising up and again the tears overcame her. Charlie didn't move, didn't show the slightest reaction. They hadn't found him in time. Charlie had counted on them, but they had let him down. If they had found him earlier, if Amita had concentrated more on the really important things, if she had just pulled herself together a bit more then perhaps everything would be totally different now. This was her fault. And she couldn't hope that Charlie would ever forgive her. She had failed and he had to pay for that.

"I'm sorry, Charlie," she whispered, but nobody heard her words. "I am so sorry." Also repeating them didn't make the matter better. The only thing that remained for her to do was to be there for him. She would care for him as long as necessary for him to recover, and then she'd withdraw discreetly and leave him alone. It was better for both of them; Charlie wouldn't have to forgive her and she wouldn't have to think of that guilt every time she even just saw Charlie. No, she would keep her distance. It was better that way.

A nurse stepped into the room, informing her of the end of her six-hundred seconds. Amita nodded silently and once more stroked Charlie's forehead. Reluctantly, she stood before she pulled herself together and resolutely left the room. She had to accustom herself to that sort of thing. If she really wanted to stay away from Charlie she also had to learn to live her life without him.

Don let Larry go first. As a matter of fact he literally forced him. Larry had initially refused, though once the time had come when they had again been allowed to see Charlie, Don had regained the upper hand and Larry had stopped resisting. He stepped into the sterile room with a slight hesitation.

It was quiet.

Not completely quiet, but it was the first thing Larry noticed, and that had to mean that the difference in volume between the corridor and the room wasn't insignificant. For also the waiting area had been rather quiet, but this... No occasional words, no agitated people. Only serenity and the continual sounds of the machines reigned here.

He didn't even hear the sound of the drops of the IV. He could only see how they fell down into the tube steadily. Drip, drip, drip... Perfectly regular, no inconsistencies. Pure and beautiful like Charlie's mathematics.

And it seemed as though the bottle didn't get emptier. Larry couldn't see any lowering of the water level, but of course he knew the reason for that: the IV bottle contracted due to the negative pressure. It bulged inwards; the label showed that very nicely.

Also, the label was a completely other matter. NaCl was printed on it. However, Larry had severe doubts about Charlie being administered pure cooking salt; it was more likely that it was salt in a water solution. Maybe he would have been able to decipher the tiny printing if the words hadn't been upside down on top of that. After all, why did people stick on the text upside down? It was clear that an IV would be hung up. Didn't they want the text to be read? But it was because of this wrong angle that people became curious, right? The whole thing just didn't make sense...

Especially when it was Charles of all people who was attached to that IV.

So now he had finally made it. He couldn't maintain his gaze upon that un-important IV any longer, but it had arrived at the really important object in this room – Charles.

Larry could hardly bear the helplessness with which his former protégé was bound to these machines. This was wrong... Charles wasn't somebody who could be bound; he had a spirit that needed freedom and wings! However, some power had decided that it should not be.

_You are such a coward_, Larry admonished himself tiredly. The decision of 'some power' was a very comfortable solution that allowed him to close his eyes to the horrible truth, the truth that made it nearly impossible for him to sit here and to defile Charles with his presence.

This was his fault.

There was not the slightest doubt in Larry's mind. He had made so many mistakes, had loaded so much guilt upon his shoulders that he dimly wondered how it was that he was still able to walk at least close to upright. How could he even dare to be here with Charles, pursuing his egoistic impulse to see him? At first, he hadn't recognized the signs of danger and had let Charles down, preferring to attend to his own problems. Then he had even sent Charles into the trap in his office and finally he had also been unable to rescue him from his dungeon. No, there was no possibility in this world how anyone might ever forgive him this fault. At least as soon as they recognized it, but that was only a matter of time. As soon as the others' worry for Charles decreased and no matter which kind of change of Charles' state might be responsible for that, as soon as that they realized his responsibility they would expel him from their society. He'd be like a comet diverted from its orbit, wandering aimlessly about, just like Charles...

He'd deserve it. For what he had done to his friend. He couldn't hope that Charles would ever forgive him, despite his generosity. He could only hope that his friend would do him one last favor by getting well again. Charles had to be fine; that was the only thing that mattered. Everything else, no matter how it was going on with himself, wasn't important to him.

An hour later, Don was running out of excuses. Megan refused his offer that she should spend the valuable minutes with Charlie. There was no one left whom Don could send in. His excuse that he had already seen Charlie had become irrelevant since it was the same with the others. The fact that they didn't understand his resistance had to mean that he was wrong. Even if he couldn't get the image of Charlie out of his head, he had to force himself to go back to him. He couldn't let him down just because he thought he couldn't bear the sight of him.

At first he had thought he didn't deserve to see his brother again. But then maybe he had deserved it, not the joy and relief, but the pain. But whether deserved or not – there was no way he could put up any further resistance. He had to stand by Charlie, be with him and give him strength.

Don found it strange.

He didn't really feel uncomfortable, just somehow like he didn't belong here. It was a strange sensation to see Charlie lying there so still. Charlie was never still. He was always in motion. And even if you didn't see it directly – there were always some brain cells working, maintaining his features in that witty tension and giving his eyes that sparkling fire.

Now those eyes were closed. And there was no new, ground-breaking formula being created behind the forehead. The tired thoughts behind the gray forehead were primitive and only directed to maintain the body alive.

And it was Don's fault.

It was he who had got the whole thing started in the first place, it had been through him that his brother had come into danger, only by him and that stupid job. And as soon as they had once got into the whirl of the two mafias, the course of things couldn't have been stopped.

Until now, Don had been stroking his fingers over Charlie's hair, now however he stopped short. Who told him that all that couldn't have been stopped? Maybe there might have been some possibility of rescuing Charlie from his dungeon in time?

Don shuddered. Had they really made a mistake, a mistake that had endangered Charlie even further?

Maybe they should have used more pressure just as he had done when Megan had been abducted? Of course Don still loathed himself for his actions at that time, for allowing Ian Edgerton to hurt the boyfriend of Megan's kidnapper physically. But didn't they say that the end justified the means? Maybe he should just have shouldered the life-long self-loathing and then they would have released Charlie earlier? What did his principles matter to him when his brother's life was at stake?

From somewhere, there came a quiet rational voice, _Are you sure that Charlie would have wanted you to betray the law and yourself for him?'_ Under normal circumstances, Don wouldn't have been so sure; he'd even have supposed that Charlie would have tried to dissuade him. But now...

Charlie's helplessness was obvious as well as the lack of any sign of life. And Don knew that Charlie would surely not have wanted that. He wondered if his brother would reproach him because he had not done everything he could for his release. As long as he was going to be able to reproach him.

It seemed as if Don had done everything simply wrong. It seemed he had let pass every chance of protecting his brother without taking it or he had shattered it at once. And now Charlie was fighting for his life. No, nobody would make Don waver in his conviction. This was his fault.


	37. Chapter 37

Thanks a lot for your reviews, and sorry it took me so long this time.  
Hope you enjoy.

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**37 – CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN – 1,103^****37**

Although they knew that they would not, with all probability, learn anything new, those left behind were waiting anxiously for Don's return.

"You should go home and get some rest. All you've done is work for the last four days. I'll notify you at once if something happens here."

It was as if Alan had only wanted to try if his voice still obeyed him, since his offer didn't even have a chance of approval.

That was also Megan's point of view, "That's really nice of you, Alan, but unnecessary. I hardly think that we're gonna find it more restful at home than here."

Alan nodded, lowering his head again, and they fell back into the silence.

It lasted until Don returned. He was pale and his face wore a scary, cold expression. Wordlessly, he sat down with them. Alan glanced at him one last time anxiously before he spoke again, "So, it seems that Megan is the next one."

However, Megan shook her head. "No, I can wait. I suggest that you go next, Alan, presuming that this regulation will still be necessary. Maybe Charlie will soon be well enough so that we can all go see him together or at least for a longer time than ten minutes."

Alan nodded and, together with the others, clung to the useless hope that Megan's prognosis might be correct.

* * *

The second time, the sight was familiar and that was what scared Alan the most. It was kind of like coming home. Maybe that was why he had been so impatient when he'd had to wait for a moment in the anteroom of the ICU earlier. Her colleague was just giving Charlie an antibiotic to make the pneumonia retreat, a nurse had told him. Alan had nodded without really listening. He'd wanted to go in there, had wanted to be with his son again.

He'd noticed that the nurse had been about to say something several times. He was, however, glad that she eventually had refrained from trying to converse with him. He knew that at that moment he wasn't really up to being sociable. He was an emotional wreck.

Maybe Charlie was too. But on top of everything else Charlie was a physical wreck. And maybe they would never be able to restore him again.

Alan pressed Charlie's hand more fiercely. He had done it again. He had again given up hope. He had again let those damned pessimistic thoughts creep into his mind. The thoughts gradually made him livid.

And still Alan knew that he was right. Even if Charlie survived this – and Alan forced himself not to allow any doubts in this regard – there was still the question of whether his son would be the same as he'd been before. Would he be able to just throw off everything that had happened? Or would he be marked by what he'd suffered for all his life?

Alan was well aware that with all probability the latter would be the case, hope or no hope. However, even in this case there was a chance that Charlie might be able to live a normal life again. He would be marked by what had happened, yes – but maybe positively? Maybe he'd become stronger by the catastrophe?

Stronger. Alan didn't know what made him think of strength, looking at his son lying there so helplessly. Then, however, with a trace of joy, he noticed that he had to revise the image of his memory: Charlie wasn't that weak. Alan thought he could see his ribcage raise and fall. That had to mean that Charlie's breathing had become stronger. And also the beeping sounds, as he realized now. They followed one upon another with an increased frequency and sounded stronger.

It was in an insidious way that the joy was leaving him. Slowly, he realised that the increase in heartbeat and respiration was not stopping; was in fact becoming alarming fast.

While the panic began to rise up inside Alan several people in doctor's coats rushed into the room and pushed him aside. Charlie seemed to be hyperventilating now and Alan dimly wondered if that was even possible with the oxygen mask, while that much too fast beeping sound of the monitors hammered in his ears and his brain.

Alan tried to get a glance at his son through the many white coats, but then a nurse pushed him out of the door. He tried to make sense of what had happened, but his mind was only an empty space.

* * *

The empty space only started to disappear when he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned around slowly. Donnie. His eldest son again had that worried, tense look that made it so clear to Alan that something wasn't going at all the way it should be.

"Why aren't you coming back to the waiting room?" Don wanted to know, staring past his father in order to catch a glimpse of what was happening in the ICU. "What are they doing? What's going on?"

"I don't know," Alan whispered. His voice was hardly audible, and only after he had given the response, it occurred to him that he indeed couldn't answer any of his son's questions.

One of the nurses suddenly came out of the room and pushed the two of them out of the anteroom so that they were now completely separated from Charlie.

"What's going on?" Don repeated his question, this time directed at the nurse.

"There are complications," was her short response before she hurried along the corridor and disappeared around the corner. And although her answer was so vague, she nevertheless managed to nip the Eppes men's still so fresh seeds of hope in the bud.

"What kind of complications?" Don called after her and just managed to stop himself from running behind her. He wasn't sure at all if he wanted to hear the answer.

Alan and Don stood for some seconds in the white corridor before they had collected enough of their senses in order to recall the others' presence. Slowly, they turned around to face them, still distraught, and it couldn't escape their notice that the three had risen from their seats and were now looking at them with worry.

"What's happening?" Amita's shaky voice finally asked. If the corridor had been a bit busier, Don wouldn't have understood her although there was only a distance of two steps between them.

"We don't know," Alan confessed.

"There were complications," Don added into the silence. It wasn't until he repeated the words that he became aware of what they really meant. Complications did not only mean nothing good, even less when they occurred with a patient who was as weak as Charlie was; it was more than not good, it was frightening, horrifying.

That was the conclusion the others also seemed to come to. In any event their silently shocked gazes spoke volumes.

* * *

They didn't know how much, they only knew that too much time had passed until finally something happened. And then everything happened so fast that the five's heads, put on standby, had difficulty in processing the events quickly enough to react appropriately. Don's train of thoughts rattled slowly and ponderously: a person stepped out of Charlie's room. The person was a nurse, so she had to know what was going on in there, and now she hurried away, although she had the information Don needed so urgently. He had to get that information, that meant...

"Hey!" When Don had finally grasped the thought, the nurse had already covered some distance between herself and Charlie's room. Don ran behind her before she could disappear around the corner. "Hey, wait!"

With a bit of surprise, the nurse turned around, and it occurred to Don how young she was. Her gaze was insecure and looked from Don's face to over his shoulder. Don briefly turned around and found himself strangely encouraged in his plan when he saw the others standing behind him. It was as if he had been sent by them in order to ask for something on behalf of all of them.

However, also without their support, the words would have stumbled out of his mouth. "What about Charlie?"

The young nurse knitted his eyebrows, and the look in her big eyes increased with insecurity. "I believe I'm not allowed to tell you." Her voice was low and cautious, nearly a whisper. "Are you family members?"

"Yes," Don answered and repeated his question. "What about him? What are those complications?"

"I really don't think –"

"Listen, that man in there is my brother!" Don could feel that he was on the verge of losing control, but he struggled to maintain his calmness. "Please tell us what's going on with him. What did they mean when they said complications earlier? Will he… live?"

"Well, at least we were able to start his heart again, but..." She stopped short. The features in front of her clearly showed her that she shouldn't have said that. Facing her, there were five shocked faces in whose eyes had entered panic. It was too late when she put her hand over her mouth as if she wanted to hold back the words she had already spoken aloud.

She had already turned halfway round when she called a, 'I've really gotta go now' over her shoulder.

"Stop! What d'you mean –"

The nurse had already turned around the corner with rushed steps, though. However, even if she hadn't, Don would probably hardly have managed to ask his question. His brain needed all its energy in order to understand her words.

* * *

On the one hand, eternities must have passed before the door opened anew. On the other hand, in that case Don would have been dead for a long time for he couldn't remember having breathed even once. When this time some nurses and a doctor stepped out of Charlie's room, Don merely stood, though didn't take the initiative. He was too terrified to hear the answer.

Therefore it was Alan who asked the so hoped for and so feared question, "How is he?"

He directed his words at the doctor who seemed to have already expected something like that and while the nurses disappeared. He shook Alan's hand inquiring, "His father?"

Alan nodded. The doctor glanced fleetingly at the other four people and before any more time was wasted with questions, Alan quickly said, "They can hear what you've got to tell me."

This time, it was the medic's turn to nod. His facial expression was as earnest as those on the staff every time they spoke to them about Charlie's condition , and it was this look that began to ruin Alan's nerves.

"Your son reacted badly to the antibiotic we gave him. This reaction is called SIRS." The doctor looked into worried, but questioning faces. "That's an abbreviation for systemic inflammatory response syndrome," he explained readily. "The organism defends itself against foreign matters introduced into the human body that are supposed to help him to fight the infection. In this process the heart and breathing frequencies increase."

Alan had knitted his brows. "And what are you doing to stop it?"

"At first we treated the symptoms and now we're leaving the body some time to regenerate itself. Then we'll give your son another antibiotic."

"And if the body reacts against that as well?"

"We hope that things won't get so far. If they do however, we'll have to try another antibiotic and then another until we find the right one. I'm afraid, but there's no other way."

Alan nodded, breathing deeply. "Can we see him?"

The medic briefly glanced at the floor. "I'm sorry, but no. For the next twenty-four hours we'll be observing to see if he can handle the new antibiotic and if it's able to fight the infection. Any kind of foreign matters would be an unnecessary danger at this stage." He let his gaze wander across the tired and exhausted faces. "You should go home now and get some a rest. If anything unpredicted happens, we'll notify you at once."

* * *

In the end, all of them had understood that the most sensible thing they could do was to follow the doctor's advice. And eventually they had been able to convince Alan by making it clear to him that it was only about a ten minute drive from the Craftsman to the hospital.

Don let himself fall into the bed in his former bedroom, exhausted. He was weary. And it seemed so unreal to him that he was here, here, while Charlie was lying unconscious in the hospital. The house seemed to be so much bigger and especially emptier without him.

Although, according to the laws of nature he should have fallen asleep anyway, Don took a sleeping pill. He couldn't bear seeing Charlie's death-pale face every time he closed his eyes.

However, the sleeping pills didn't prevent him from jerking up in bed in the middle of the night. He had dreamed of Charlie and they'd been at the beach, swimming. They had swum out further and further until the waves had become higher and a storm had come. And at some point in time Charlie hadn't been there anymore. Don had still been holding his hand, had clung to his brother, but Charlie had already been under water. Don hadn't been able to pull him upwards and his brother's hand had slipped out of his and Charlie had sunk down into the depths and Don hadn't been able to save him...

He shuddered then looked at his alarm clock: Saturday morning, half past four. He had slept for a surprisingly long period. That was it, though, he couldn't sleep any longer.

Quietly, he crept out of his room and was just about to go downstairs when he heard sounds coming from Charlie's room. Slowly he drew nearer to the door until through a crack he could see his father, illuminated by Charlie's bedside lamp.

For an instant, Don was rigid with surprise and didn't know what to do. Then he heard the quiet sobbing that came out of the room, and was even more clueless.

He stood helplessly in the doorway. He knew that there were no words to console his father and he was just about to creep back into his bed as quietly as possible in order to at least pretend as if nothing had happened, when a floorboard screeched under his feet. Alan whirled around.

For a second Don didn't move, but he knew that now he had no choice anymore. With a few steps he arrived at his father and embraced him at first cautiously, then, when Alan hugged him back, as strongly as if he was fighting for his life. And all of a sudden he realized that he wasn't offering selfless help, but that he too could use the help of closeness offered by a family member.


	38. Chapter 38

**38 – CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT – 1,100^****38**

Around noon, Don looked in on the office. If David and Colby hadn't been informed by Megan that Don didn't have anything to do at the moment anyway, they surely would have sent him away at once. There was nothing to do at the office other than taking down the mobsters' statements, comparing them with each other and writing the reports. It was a tedious piece of work and boring, but they didn't need Don for this. Besides, they had a somewhat queasy feeling at times, especially when they saw Don standing at the observation window to the interrogation room where Ivanov's statement was being taken down. Don's gaze had something murderous in it that made icy shudders run down their spines. Eventually, however, Don turned away from the window, said good-bye to his colleagues and left the FBI headquarters.

It wasn't until the afternoon that they went back to the hospital and still they were an hour too early to see Charlie. Though at least they got to know that his condition was stable and that was the best news they'd heard for an eternity. He wasn't in acute danger anymore; the antibiotics had made the pneumonia retreat and the weakness caused by the lack of nutrition and fluids was becoming less.

"Of course it's still possible that there'll be further complications, especially with a patient who's been admitted in such a critical state as Charlie," Dr Porter told them. "However, as things are now it seems as if he's out of the woods."

"So he'll get completely well again?" Alan spoke again for the whole group.

"As I said, I can't guarantee that. It's always possible that something unforeseen happens. And concerning long-term damage, we still have to watch Charlie's reactions and his mental state more closely. Until now he hasn't been conscious and responsive for a period long enough in order to provide us with the necessary insight in this respect."

"He's been conscious?" Don hardly dared to speak the question out loud. He almost blurted a 'Why didn't you notify us?'.

"Every now and then he's been awake for some seconds or even minutes or at least showed some reaction." A slight, lenient smile showed itself upon her face. "A conversation upon the weather, however, hasn't taken place yet."

Don inhaled deeply. He was dizzy. So that was it? Charlie had made it?

"Can... can we go to him now?

The voice didn't sound at all like his, but he momentarily didn't care a jot. The only thing that mattered was the doctor's nod.

0 – 0 – 0

He was light. Everything was light. He felt like a feather being blown with the wind until it found its destiny. He didn't know where he came from; he didn't know what had happened previously. He only knew that he was floating and that it should never stop.

However, wishes tended to be destroyed. His wonderful flight through the gentle air became troubled; the feather doubled up in uncomfortably cold gust of winds, curled into itself, trying to escape from the pain, but it didn't make it; the pain remained and held it in its clutches. It grasped the tender down tightly. He wanted to drift back into his pleasant dream, but reality drew him with it.

The pain reached a higher threshold and he groaned quietly, but that didn't improve things. There were furrows creasing his forehead and he thought he couldn't stand it any longer, but the pain still didn't release him.

However, all of a sudden the pain wasn't the only sensation anymore. As if through water he could hear voices, soft at first, but they were there and they were familiar to him. He remembered their tone and together with the tone images were surfacing from the depths of his mind. However, the images were blurry and incoherent and he longed to see not only the images, but also the real people. The desire was so strong that it opened his eyes.

The result was disappointing. The previously occasional voices had now completely fallen silent. And his surroundings were still blurry and so glaring that he kept his eyes nearly closed and blinked only cautiously. And he still couldn't see the people who'd been talking before.

No, there! There were fingers! And shortly afterwards Charlie felt a hand on his face. It was a bit rough and made him instinctively think of his father.

"Charlie?"

Oh. Maybe he was wrong after all? In any case he had a lot of difficulty in comparing the voice that had just spoken to that of his father. The voice sounded hoarse and suppressed and in a very strange way tearful. Charlie had never heard his father speak like that. Nearly never… It suddenly occurred to him that after his mother's death his father's voice had also sometimes had such a strange tone.

"Can he hear us?"

It was another voice, also male, also despite its familiarity, so strange. Charlie tried to open his eyes in order to see the owner of the voice, but the glaring light and the pain and the tiredness were too much. Perfectly slowly, Charlie was pulled through the pain back into the depths of sleep where he was floating. He'd have to wait until he could summon up enough strength for his next attempt.

0 – 0 – 0

The woman at the reception desk had given them the information they had wanted. Well, 'wanted' was relative. It was true, they now knew where Charlie was – but still in the ICU? That somehow didn't sound good.

They hurried along another corridor until they didn't have to search for the right room, for in front of them, Megan and Larry came through a door.

"How is he?" Colby asked as soon as they had come near enough so that he didn't have to shout.

The two of them whirled around to face them and Megan first exhaled deeply before she spoke, "Oh Lord, you startled us." She looked into their tense faces and a smile spread over her face. "Everything's okay," she appeased her former co-workers. "He seems to be over the worst. He's also opened his eyes a couple of times although he didn't seem to be aware of us."

David and Colby simultaneously inhaled with relief.

"And what about you?" David then asked. "Were you sent out of the room?"

"God, no," Megan laughed it off. "We just wanted to get a breath of fresh air."

"Yeah... I was just explaining to Megan that hospital air makes you sick," Larry added.

David laughed briefly. That was typical of Larry. And the fact that Larry was acting normally again had to mean that Megan was right.

"Do you think we can go in there?" Colby asked.

"Of course," Megan answered. "You just have to be quiet." A smile crept onto her face. "Although Don is not really obeying that order. I guess he's trying to wake Charlie up with noise."

With that, they waved each other good-bye and the two of them entered into the room.

Three of the four heads in the space turned to face them. However it was the fourth head that grabbed all their attention. Charlie was pale, if you disregarded the flushed cheeks. He seemed to have a fever; at least that was what the beads of sweat on his forehead indicated which Alan was, just and probably not for the first time, dabbing with a damp cloth. They could see that under the surface something was going on in Charlie, but he didn't wake up.

"Hey, you two," Don greeted them with a hoarse voice that was somewhere between a mezzo piano and a whisper as if he couldn't decide which volume was appropriate.

"Hey. How is he?" David inquired.

"Better," said Don, his eyes turned towards his brother and the corners lifted slightly in a smile.

All of a sudden the two agents felt the irrepressible urge to leave again. The atmosphere was heavy with emotions that were strong enough to keep intruders away. At least that was how it appeared to them even if the three family members would probably gladly have had them stay.

"We just wanted to look in on him," Colby began their justification in a whisper. "Megan told us he's made it?"

"Yes," Amita whispered back. She too, all of a sudden, had a smile on her face, although there was a damp glimmer in her eyes.

"That's awesome," David said in a low voice. He had a lump in his throat, but he didn't dare clear it. It was high time to leave anyway. "We'll come again later." And rapidly, though as quietly as possible, they left Charlie's hospital room.

On the other side of the door, they stopped and first of all breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh boy," Colby groaned softly. He didn't need to go on. David understood him perfectly and felt everything just as he did. They knew, however, that what they had just witnessed was good. If the feelings in the room were strong enough to make it impossible for them to remain there, they also had to be strong enough to bring Charlie back.

0 – 0 – 0

The more he approached the surface again, the more intense became the pain, but also the more intense became the hope and the wish to be able to hear the voices and see the faces again. This wish nourished the strength he needed to break through the surface.

He was there again. His eyelids were still too heavy to lift, but he perceived everything with remarkable distinctiveness. He could feel a soft hand upon his own and after an instant he realized that it had to be Amita's. He could hear voices, those familiar voices, and this time they were hardly distorted or muffled.

"I think he was just moving again." That was his father, without any doubt.

"Maybe he's finally waking up. 'Bout time." The voice was a bit scratchy, but also with that one there was no doubt that it was Don's.

With an immense effort Charlie opened his eyes. It was only a slit and he had to squint against the bright light, but this time he remained awake. He could recognize heads and the faces were familiar to him and matched his other sensations. He was there again.

"Charlie."

Charlie needed only a couple of seconds to realize that his father had spoken and what he had said. However, he didn't know what he could answer to that, and neither was he sure if he was able to form words.

"How are you?" It was a female voice and it hit Charlie in the middle of his heart. Already merely to make Amita happy he had to answer, no matter what.

"Good," he tried to say. The word came out of his mouth as an indefinable sound and maybe that was the fault of his sub consciousness because it didn't want him to lie. And still, in a strangely transcendent way his answer was true. Of course he was in pain and of course he was weary and of course he felt far from optimum, but at least he felt; he received sensations, he could feel his body and was aware of his surroundings. Things weren't the way they had been during his past sleep of which he could hardly remember even now; he was there again, back in life. And this knowledge would have been enough to make him jump in the air with joy – if he hadn't been too weak to have even so much as lifted his hand.

"You lie dreadully," Don said, and Charlie thought he could hear him smile.

Charlie's gaze found him and his supposition was confirmed. And he found even more. He saw the contours of the faces around him and the eyes with that strange glimmer in them. Unshed tears, but that didn't make them less enigmatic. Why were they crying? Had anything happened? But what? He should be able to remember and should be able to understand the tears... He was too tired though. He momentarily neither wanted nor could try remembering sad things. What mattered now were the faces in front of his eyes. And he didn't know why, but he knew that he had missed them.

"Larry and Megan are here, too," Alan explained with a slightly shaking voice. Charlie could already feel that he was getting tired again, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open and to go on listening to his father's words. "They should be back in a couple of minutes. And David and Colby were here earlier, too."

Charlie could feel that he wasn't going to stand it much longer. Everything was just too much and he was so tired... His eyes fell shut again and once more the effort to re-open them became greater with every time.

"Hey buddy, you still with us?"

Charlie had nearly fallen asleep when he forced himself to open his eyes once more. He looked into Don's smiling face and his words accompanied him into a healing sleep. "Welcome back."


	39. Chapter 39

First of all, thanks for your reviews.  
I'm sorry for the delay, but I hope you're not too angry with me to try enjoying.  
One more chapter left.

* * *

**39 – CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE – 1,098^****39**

Another fit of coughing shook Charlie and kept him breathless. With a concerned gaze, Don watched both his brother and the purulent phlegm.

"And the doctor really said that was normal?" he asked once more with a furrowed forehead.

"Yeah, he did," Charlie croaked. He kept himself bent forward and was still occupied with bringing his tickly throat under control.

"Hey," Don said gently, but he didn't know how to go on. He had laid one hand on Charlie's back, but he still felt uncomfortably far away from him. A residual bout of coughing took all of Charlie's attention and he couldn't do anything. Don was sitting helplessly at his brother's bedside watching him struggle. He dimly wondered if the others would have been able to do something, however, they had gone half an hour ago to take a rest. During the past few days, Charlie's condition had been getting better and better. At first that was only what the doctors told him, for in Don and the other's eyes, he still looked more dead than alive. Now, however, they dared leave him for a couple of hours without fear keeping them in its claws. Don had seized the opportunity and stayed despite his exhaustion. This way, he had his brother all to himself for a while.

Finally, the coughing subsided, but not so the agony on Charlie's face. Silence fell upon them, though it was not completely uncomfortable.

Don watched his little brother. He looked weary; the coughing wore him out. But at least he was out of the woods. They had made it. Charlie's face was pale except for his reddened cheeks, his eyelids were heavy, and he had dark circles under his glassy eyes. He had beads of sweat on his forehead. However, the fever was retreating. Everything was going to be fine.

_Is__n't__ it?_ Don's gaze rested on the haggard figure whose exhaustion wasn't caused only by physical factors. Charlie had experienced mortal fear for four seemingly endless days. Don knew that not one of them was going to get over the past few weeks so easily.

A wave of overwhelming rage gripped him. There was a hatred surging up inside him with a fierceness he had seldom felt before, a hatred against the creatures that had done all that to them. _They'll pay for that._

"What do you mean?"

Don's gaze focused again on Charlie who was looking directly at him, although a bit wearily. He hadn't even noticed that he had spoken the words out loud. He swallowed. "They're gonna pay for it, Charlie, I promise." The words had hardly left his mouth when they already sounded incredibly pathetic.

Charlie hadn't missed that either. The corners of his mouth were slightly lifted. "You'd better keep the volume down when you say such things. For that sounds rather like vigilante justice to me. And at the moment there's a whole bunch of people around this place who are linked to the FBI." Once again Charlie was occupied with coughing. It had been a miracle to Don that his brother had been able to say three entire sentences without interruption.

Don tried to keep the admittedly rather one-sided conversation going when he thought the cough had passed. "Have David and Colby been yet?"

However, the coughing hadn't passed yet and Charlie kept writhing while he answered by nodding.

Finally, the attack was over and Charlie leaned back wearily into his pillows. He simply looked miserable, as Don was forced to notice. However, he was also aware that the cough wasn't even the most agonizing thing for Charlie. It was only the element that was most obvious to Don and all the others and showed Charlie's weakened state the most distinctly.

"How can you even stop long enough to fall asleep?"

Charlie grinned wryly. "I can't," he answered with a hoarse and tight voice, "but the cough is exhausting enough to make me tired."

There were moments when Don preferred a less honest answer, and this was one of them. Concerned, he looked at his little brother, thinking intensely how he could help him when Charlie signaled his refusal.

"It's okay. I mean, considering the alternative I'm really feeling great." The coughing attack that followed upon that seemed to be mocking his words.

0 – 0 – 0

With slight, though un-ignorable wistfulness, Larry watched the plane get smaller and smaller. Megan was flying back to Washington; her remaining holiday was over. Now he was alone again.

However, he knew that a second farewell would follow upon this one. And he would lose his best friend not only to the other end of the States, but to the past.

Up till now, Charlie hadn't made any move to reject him. And although he was improving at a breath-taking speed, he had to remove the chaos of his thoughts first. At some point in time, however, he and the others would notice that everything was Larry's fault. And Larry didn't intend to wait until that thought would occur to them. Even if he loathed himself for his actions, he still had a modicum of dignity that he was going to keep. He was going to take the first step away from Charlie himself and through that maintain everything under control until their lives took separate paths.

He entered Charlie's sickroom and wasn't very surprised to find that he was not alone; Alan and Amita were there too. Larry knew that Charlie had hardly been alone for a moment the few days since his rescue. Still he'd hoped that he and Charlie would be alone when he bid him farewell to go wherever his future path might lead him.

In any case there was no way he could avoid this. He had resolved to do it now and he was going to see it through.

"Charles."

The three of them looked at him in surprise; the greeting wasn't the way it usually was.

"I've come to say good bye to you."

Charlie abruptly pulled himself a bit more upright and flinched when the movement painfully reminded of the fracture in his knee. Larry saw this as confirmation of his decision.

"What's that supposed to mean? Where are you going?" The young professor's voice sounded hoarse and the words once again ended in a coughing fit. Although the attacks weren't as bad as they had been shortly before, they still evoked compassionate looks, which Charlie tried to ignore as well as he could.

Larry breathed in deeply. So this was the moment of truth. "Well, I've realized that it was my fault what happened to you. And I'm ready to take the necessary action."

"Your fault? What gave you that stupid idea?" Alan asked in bewilderment and Charlie was thankful that he didn't have to speak again. He could still hardly get out a sound of his throat and most times his sentences ended, just as they had now, in a painful and exhausting coughing attack.

Maybe Larry too was glad when someone spoke instead of him; in any case he didn't interrupt Amita. "Larry is probably talking about the fact that we failed to find Charlie's prison." A fleeting side-glance at Larry seemed to confirm her theory and she continued, "Theoretically we should have been able to find the hiding-place. Or more to the point _I_ should have been able to. It was my program that showed the mobsters' localities. There must have been a flaw somewhere in it and that's why it didn't show that hiding-place. If I hadn't made a mistake with that program, we would have found the hiding-place much sooner and..."

While she had been speaking, her voice had lost more and more strength, and tears again had welled up in her eyes. Tears that she had been suppressing for the past few days, since Charlie had been improving. Now they came to the surface as Amita knew exactly that it wasn't Larry whose fault it was, but she hers. She briefly glanced up to him noticing his strange look in which, strangely, there was a bit of newly born hope.

"And if you hadn't had the program, you wouldn't have got anywhere," Charlie completed her sentence when she didn't go on. He had tried to sound gentle, but his sore throat rather ruined that intention. "Besides, I'm fine," he added. "So stop telling yourselves that; it's not your fault."

"That's exactly what I'd say too," Alan now joined in. "I mean, you at least stayed here and did the best you could to help Charlie. I, however..." For a moment, Alan couldn't go on. Then he forced himself to continue, "I, however, just left and let my sons down."

Charlie looked at his father with an incredulous look in his eyes. He had thought that his father was going to support him in his attempt to refute those idiotic acknowledgments of guilt. And instead his father was now including himself as part of that group.

"Now stop it, will you?" he squeezed the words out of his throat. He frowned as if that could help him understand why suddenly everybody was trying to blame himself or herself. "What's up with you? None of you are to blame; how could it! I would've thought you'd think a bit more rationally!"

Alan shook his head. "Maybe you can forgive us and I can also see that the others really did the best they could. But you can't clear me of my guilt."

Charlie was already wondering how he could refute that idiotic theory with as few words as possible when he saw Larry shake his head. "I would never have thought that you too..." Larry fell silent, but since he was staring into the void in front of him with high concentration, he missed the interest with which the others were watching him.

"It looks as though –" Again he interrupted himself as if he were once more examining his train of thoughts. When he finally went on, the others were surprised to find the trace of a smile playing around his lips. "It looks as though we made the scientist's favorite mistake." He looked up and Charlie noticed that the worry lines on his forehead had all of a sudden nearly disappeared. And Larry on his part had to realize that the others didn't understand what he was talking about. "Human beings," he therefore elaborated, "tend to, in their unlimited over-estimation of themselves, have the opinion they can change the world's course. But we forget that we're only an atom in a huge and unbelievably complex universe."

A moment of silence passed before Amita asked, unemotionally as she hadn't been for days: "And that means what?"

"That means," Charlie answered instead of his friend, "that Larry agrees with me. None of you is guilty in any possible way."

That was followed by silence and the three of them were abandoning themselves to the hope that maybe they had really made a mistake by blaming themselves and that Charlie and the others wouldn't reject them when the door opened. It was David, and behind him they could see a rather grumpy looking Don.

"Hey, Charlie, how're you doing?" David inquired. He didn't seem to be perfectly comfortable with the situation. Maybe he could feel his superior's eyes on his back for Don looked as if he was about to attack him like a rabid dog.

"Hi. Uh, I'm fine, really. Getting exponentially better."

"That's good. Listen..." He stopped for a second before he decided to tell Charlie despite Don's reluctance. "We've received information from the powers that be. You'll probably be informed sometime soon, but Colby and I wanted to tell you straight away; we thought it might cheer you up. They finally finished the investigation, you've got your security clearance back."

Everyone in the room, apart from the agents, were wide-eyed with surprise and Charlie at first didn't know what to say. However, Don's sharp voice would have cut him off short anyway: "That's merely a formality, Charlie. Of course it's clear that you won't work for the FBI again."

Charlie furrowed his forehead. "Why shouldn't I?"

Don snorted angrily. "Do I really have to explain that to you? Look around! You nearly died during this stupid case and now those pencil pushers pretend nothing happened at all!"

Charlie shook his head in bewilderment. "One I didn't die and two that doesn't have to do anything with my security clearance."

"It has, Charlie, because it's for this very reason that this nearly killed you, that you're not going to work for the FBI again."

Charlie pushed himself a bit more upright in his bed. He could now also sense the anger gradually welling up inside him. "I might be wrong, but I keep thinking that it's my decision for whom I work and for whom I don't!"

"If you're –" Don started, but David cut him off by drowning him out.

"As I said, Charlie, I just wanted to tell you the decision. I've got to get back to the office now. So... keep getting better."

He had nearly left the room when Larry also jumped up from his seat. "Wait, David, I'll walk you downstairs."

Amita hesitated, but she didn't really want to become involved in the situation either. "I'm coming with you."

Alan was left behind in a dilemma. He didn't think it was a good idea to leave his sons alone now, but he also thought that they should settle this thing among themselves. He didn't want to side with one of them. On the one hand he'd prefer if at least one of his sons would dedicate himself to a less dangerous job, on the other hand he also knew that he had raised his sons to make their own decisions. And although Don wasn't really acting very peacefully right now, Alan knew that his eldest would make sure that his brother wouldn't overexert himself.

"I hope you're able to discuss like grown-up people," he therefore said before he too left the room.

The two brothers were left behind. The others' departure had taken the wind out of their sails, but still neither of them was ready to give in.

Charlie inhaled deeply and immediately had to suppress the cough again. "I'm going to continue working on cases, Don, no matter if you're okay with that or not," he then made it clear.

Charlie could see that Don was still angry, though his voice was cool and controlled and sounded final. "You're a free man, Charlie. You can do and not do whatever you want. But you won't work with my team again. It's my decision whom I let work with us, and I won't take the risk any longer of having to tell Dad that I'm guilty of your death."

Charlie had the feeling he had missed something. His forehead was furrowed. "Did Dad say something like that?" he asked in confusion. "That you were guilty of what happened?"

Don snorted and a small, joyless smile appeared on his face. "Of course not, you know Dad."

"Right, Dad is honest." When he realized that Don wouldn't change his mind, he resorted a bit more to begging. "Come on, Don, I just had that discussion with the others. What happened isn't your fault."

"You were in my charge, Charlie. And damn it, I was responsible for you!"

"Don – it was the mafia. What were you supposed to do? As far as I've understood things until now, you really did everything possible to bring me back. And I mean, you made it! I'm here Don, I'm fine!"

"This time. But maybe next time you won't."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Maybe I'll get run over on the street before there'll be a next time. Or I'll fall off the ladder or I'll get in the middle of a gang shooting or –"

"Could you _maybe_ just stop that?"

Rather unprepared, Charlie noticed Don's somehow agonised features, and fell abruptly silent before trying to deliver his opinion with a bit less dramatic words. "What I intended to say is that you can't protect me from everything, Don. And believe it or not, I'm grown-up and I myself am responsible for my actions. And therefore no one – except for you – thinks of blaming you for what happened. Heavens, you even tried to convince me to go to Baltimore, so it's rather me who's to blame for everything. You know, I realized that what I did wasn't very prudent, but I wanted to help, to do the right thing, so I'd rather shift the blame onto the mafia if you don't mind."

Don looked resolutely ahead in silence. His features were still serious, but his anger had already passed. When Charlie had to cough once again, Don, without turning his head, glanced at him, watching the so fragile-looking figure. He had difficulty in believing that he had been able to do such a thing to his brother. However, he had even more difficulty in believing that he wasn't to blame. But at least it seemed as if Charlie was willing to forgive him...

Charlie's cough subsided, and since Don was still silent, he began anew. "I mean, you really did great work. to be honest, I had already given up hope that you would ever find me. The chances were one to... in any case little enough. And eventually you found me." When Don still didn't look up, he tried to disperse the tension in the room. "'But you _are_ aware that by that you broke a law regarding the principles of probability, aren't you? You may be glad that the international court for mathematics won't call you to account."

Don felt a slight smile creep onto his lips, though it was caused by Charlie's attempt to distract him from his guilt. "Though in that case, some of your math friends would also have to appear in court," he answered.

"Amita and Larry? I knew they'd help you."

"Not only them. Some students also. One of them described Ivanov. And three others described the vehicle in which you were... which they used to take you." Don had to clear his throat. It tightened when he thought of the image of some mobsters carrying his little brother out of CalSci into a dark van.

"And the description of that vehicle was enough to find the mobsters?"

This time Don laughed, even if it sounded very joyless. "You won't believe it, but they managed to remember the plate. 4 PID 434. I wouldn't have thought there'd be more –"

Charlie interrupted him. "Are you serious? 4 PID 434? With that you again violated the principles of probability. A pi-car that abducts a math professor, that's really a bit over the top."

Don could hardly believe it. Was everybody around him crazy? Or was that just the world where his brother lived? "Pi-car," he repeated drily.

"Of course! Four to the four divided by three to the four, in earlier times that was quite a popular value for pi, although the deviation of approximately zero point six per cent is of course –"

"Charlie?"

The younger brother immediately fell silent. "Yeah?"

Don's answer came accompanied by a shaking of his head and the trace of a real smile. "You're really not normal."

"Normal would be boring, wouldn't it?" Charlie said with self-confidence. If he hadn't still been so immensely weak, he might have sounded as he'd been in earlier days. "But how did things go on then? Did a witness see the pi-car at the beach when they brought me to the hiding-place?"

Don realized that Charlie was trying to sound carefree and normal, but he couldn't banish the exhaustion from his voice. "No, the car only helped us to find the mobsters," Don explained patiently. Charlie was just about to comment on the 'only' when he thought he knew what his brother had meant by it. "When a major part of the mobsters were arrested, José Sanchez called us and told us about the hiding-places. He was also the one to lead us to that one at the beach."

Charlie nodded slightly and slowly. The moment of lightness of their conversation had given way to the realization that Charlie wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for Sanchez' help. He could feel the tiredness coming over him again, but he forced himself to hang in just a little bit longer; the answers to his questions were too important to him to fall asleep now. "What will happen to him now?"

"Since he'd been forced by the mafia to do the crimes he committed, he probably won't have to fear legal consequences, provided that he testifies against them. However, he's likely to be deported and to be put in witness protection in Mexico. However, as it seems he wanted to return to Mexico anyway after everything that happened to him here and with what he might face if some mobsters decide to take revenge on him – whether he's in witness protection or not."

Again Charlie nodded deliberately, and some seconds passed in silence before he asked his next question. The words only came slowly out of his mouth and weren't more than a tired murmur, but he struggled to remain awake. "Can I talk to him?"

Don smiled. It was very convenient that Sanchez too had already asked about Charlie. He would bring Sanchez with him sometime when Charlie was better; after all he was no danger to him (which didn't mean that Don would let them out of his sight for as much as a second). "I think we can arrange that," he replied quietly with regard to Charlie's closed eyes. He doubted that his brother had heard the answer. It didn't matter though. Charlie would surely remember the question and ask him once more. Don would be there when he woke up.


	40. Chapter 40

Alright, time to say good-bye. This is the last chapter. 'Bout time.

Thanks to everyone who read the whole story, and thanks to all those who left a comment to tell me what I could do better and to encourage me. Everything was very appreciated :)

notsing: thanks again for your comment! I figure we disagree quite a lot on the Charlie-angle, but nevertheless you made me wonder if Charlie's behaviour of not following Don's orders is really condemnable in such a grade. I beg to differ, because Don didn't tell Charlie to leave as his superior, but as his brother, because Don wasn't thinking about the case then, but only worried for his brother's safety. I think we can agree that Charlie's behaviour wasn't fair against Don, but I wouldn't say he put the team into danger. (Feel free to disagree :) )

Please enjoy!

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**40 – CHAPTER FORTY – 1,097^40**

"Wouldn't that be something for –" Don's menacing look made David stop short.

Colby watched his colleague lower his glance nervously. That, however, didn't mean by any means that he also would give up. "Come on, Don," he tried to convince him. "David's right. We had similar problems in the past and every time Charlie helped us with them. He'd find trends and criminals easily and much faster than we would. He'd predict their actions and everything, you know that."

Don sighed. Of course he knew. And they really had to make some progress.

For two days now, they'd been searching for three escaped convicts. Two of them had done time for killing during a robbery, the other for kidnap in order to demand a ransom. They were known to be violent and had already left behind a bloody trace for Don's team. However, the trace, or rather the traces, all led to nowhere. And if they didn't use all the help they could get, that would border on being accessories to murder.

And still. Don didn't want to ask Charlie. Of course, his brother was once again fine physically and he'd been teaching for two weeks now. It was only a matter of time until he would be working again for some investigating agency as a consultant. But not for Don's team. Don had decided not to involve his brother in his work ever again. Originally, he'd been determined to keep to his intention. Now, however, he wondered for how much longer he'd be able to resist. It was a fact that they needed his help. And after all, this was merely about analysis. Charlie would probably not be in danger at all...

Probably.

The decision would have been much easier for Don if he could have been certain that Charlie would refuse his request. Charlie had experienced horrible things during this mafia case; he'd just barely escaped from the claws of death; it would have been perfectly understandable if he hadn't wanted to do anything with all the FBI ever again. Unfortunately however, the exact opposite was the case. Subconsciously, Don was aware that his little brother would never refuse one of his requests, even worse – Charlie had already asked him if they needed his help, now that he had his security clearance back.

Don sighed heavily. There was no sense in wondering and brooding. It was most sensible to ask for his help.

With unusual nervousness, Don waited for Charlie to pick up the phone. He didn't know what to say. Maybe, if he did it properly he might perhaps word it so that Charlie wouldn't even want to help him. The right words at the right time, a reserved tone... However, deep down Don knew that it was hopeless. He knew that Charlie was literally waiting for a new case, though until now Don had successfully got rid of him.

It had hurt him, however. Hurt both of them. Although Don had come to the conclusion that he was doing the right thing it had by no means been easy for him to reject Charlie's offers. One, he remembered cases very well they had solved together and remembered how much easier many things became as soon as Charlie joined them. And two he missed working with his brother.

Suddenly, Don noticed that the ringing tone still hadn't stopped. A queasy feeling, growing fast with intensity, spread in his stomach. Something couldn't have happened, not again...

The phone in Charlie's office remained un-answered, and he couldn't even get a connection to the Craftsman. All of a sudden Don had a terrible feeling of Déjà-vu. They had abducted him again...

While Don drove to his brother's house, all sorts of possible and impossible horror scenarios rolled through his mind while at the same time he was trying to tell himself that there was probably a totally logical explanation. Maybe Charlie had already gone to bed? Or he hadn't heard his mobile? Maybe he was once more caught up in his world of numbers? Or he wasn't there anymore; they had taken him with them, or worse than taken him... His fears changed, but the fear remained.

He first tried the garage. Since his father had wanted to meet with his colleague Stan tonight, there was only Charlie to be found. And in that case it was here where he had the best chance.

He pushed the door to the garage open, listening intently. He held his much too fast breath in order to sense possible danger in time.

There it was. Breathing in fits and starts, shallow and irregular.

Deciding that attack was the best form of defence, Don pressed the light switch, but nothing happened. "Is there anybody in here?" he finally asked, ready to attack.

"D... D-Don?"

A part of the tension fell away from him while he rapidly made his way through the dark garage towards that thin, frightened voice. "What's going on, Charlie? What happened?" he asked with soft urging, trying to find his way through the black chaos.

"I... I..." The younger man fell silent, and finally Don reached him. Charlie was sitting on the floor leaning against the wall. Don squatted down next to him.

"Hey." Softly, he laid his hand on his brother's upper arm. "What's going on, Charlie? Why aren't you answering your mobile?"

"T-the lights off," Charlie stammered with feverish energy and he began to hiccough. "A-and I th-thought... I thought they'd be... they'd be here again..."

Don understood immediately. After all that had happened he couldn't hold it against Charlie that he was still afraid of the mafia. Those bastards had attacked his little brother twice in the dark from behind. This time, however, it was only their demons that were attacking and more importantly: this time Don was here.

"Calm down, Charlie. I'm here. I'm sure this was only a power cut. Nobody's doing anything to you."

"I – I know!" Charlie sobbed and a dull sound made Don start. It took him a second until he figured out that Charlie had hit his fist on the floor. "I kn-know th-that the mafia isn't th-there anymore," he continued and was obviously trying hard to regain control over himself. And if it were only through irritated impatience that he regained it at least this way he didn't sound that lost anymore.

What he said wasn't entirely true. Bolshoyov, the big boss, was still free because they just hadn't been able to prove anything against him along with some other mobsters. However, Charlie was right in stating that the mafia was shattered and that it would probably take some time for them to become powerful enough to attack again. And considering Charlie's obvious current psychological state, Don preferred giving more importance to this second point of view.

"Everything's fine again," Don tried to soothe him with such a gentle voice that it gave even himself goose-bumps.

Just with Charlie it didn't seem to be working. "I know!" Charlie retorted, this time more violently, and he stood abruptly.

While Don struggled to get up he noticed that Charlie was leaning against the wall, evidently in order to get rid of vertigo. He tried to support him, but his hand was brushed aside with a brusque gesture. Vulnerability gave way to anger. "Leave me alone!"

It is probably a characteristic among siblings to do always the opposite of which one is asked. In any case Don now had an even tighter grip around his brother's upper-arm. "What's going on with you, Charlie? Talk to me," he demanded hauntingly

Something went wrong, however. Charlie ripped himself away from Don again. "I can do this on my own, okay? You can go back to your work, I don't need any help!"

Charlie's words told Don that the exact opposite was the case. For an instance, impatience tried to well up inside him – why did Charlie make it so difficult on him? – but also with his next deep breath Don became aware that it wasn't viciousness or something similar that was behind Charlie's actions, but desperation.

After all the overwhelming events, his brother had been back on his feet considerably faster than anyone would have thought. He had acted as if nothing had happened and had, apparently to merely alleviate their preoccupation, after a short hesitation accepted the advice that had been given him from several people and had consulted a psychiatrist.

With that, however, his cooperation had hit its abrupt end. He didn't talk about what had happened, avoided every kind of discussion and rushed back into normal life at a frightening speed. As soon as he had got got his fingers on a laptop, he had started to draft a plan in order to solve, or at least to minimize, the drug problem in Mexico as a favor for José Sanchez – regardless of all the people saying that he was loading too much work on himself. Out of gratitude to Sanchez, Don had soon helped him; he knew Charlie's stubbornness, and working together with him at least gave him a pretext to be with Charlie as long as possible and to keep an eye on him.

However, this idée fixe hadn't been the end of it. As soon as it his health had allowed him to go back to work, he was standing in front of his students, and not even a week later he had asked Don if they didn't need his help in one of their cases. Without even thinking about it, Don had said 'no'. Charlie was rushing things, and Don sure as hell wasn't going to help him with that.

He had a certain idea of what was going on inside him. He knew his brother. He knew that Charlie hated to be treated like a child and he knew from experience that his father tended to such kind of treatment, especially after events like the past ones.

Charlie, however, hadn't let Alan get to him. He had behaved strongly. And most of the people around him had believed him.

Not Don. Big Brother knew that Charlie was still suffering. And if he hadn't known before, today's evening demonstrated it. Charlie was currently so mentally unstable that one came to wonder why he hadn't broken yet.

For an instant, Don's heart stopped. Maybe he already was broken?

In any case Don had to be very careful and cautious if he wanted to help him and not cause further damage. He chose his words with care, and thus some further tense seconds passed.

"Okay, Charlie. Okay. If you say you don't need help, I believe you."

Don would have given a lot to have some more light now, but even in the darkness he felt that Charlie relaxed a bit. He hoped that it wasn't too early to get ready for the next step. And that he wasn't walking into a trap. "But we do need your help," he confessed, and it was indeed not easy for him. Not only was he feeling that he was endangering his brother once again, but in a strangely egoistical way it also hurt his pride.

It was worth it, however. Through the darkness, Don could just make out that Charlie was looking at him, searching his eyes. "Really? I can help you?"

Don swallowed. His throat was dry as if his sub-consciousness was trying to prevent him from answering by leaving him high and dry. "Yeah," he then confirmed. "Yeah, Charlie, you could really help us." The worst thing about it was that he was even telling the truth.

"Okay," was the answer, but Don thought he could still hear some mistrust in it. "Okay. I can do that."

"Very well." Don hesitated, but he had to say it now: "You see? I admitted that we need help, and I didn't lose face, did I?"

In the light-absent environment, Don believed he could see Charlie's eyes literally flash. But maybe that was only what was beginning to dawn in his mind.

"What's that supposed to mean? I don't need help!"

"Uh, no?"

"No! And now just leave it at that! I told you I'm fine!"

"Yeeah, Charlie, the thing is, is that no one believes that."

"I'm not as vulnerable and helpless as you all think all the time!"

Don thought his brother was about to attack him, and he found it was high time to work a bit at calming him down. For that, however, he first had to wipe away the anger that had flared up inside him during the argument. "Okay! I'm just wondering why you're sitting here curled up on the floor in a dark garage!"

Charlie was trembling, and it wasn't from fear, but from repressed anger. Okay, maybe a little bit of fear. But couldn't they just leave him alone for a minute? He was there again, wasn't he; he was fine; he could handle that! Why did nobody trust him? Why did nobody believe in him? How could they know more than he that he would never be able to cope with it alone, that he would never cope with it anyhow, that the demons were going to haunt him forever...

"Just... just leave me alone for a while, will you?"

"No, Charlie, I won't. The things you've been through... Heaven, I read the report, after all! The things you –"

Don stopped short. This really wasn't easy. Very wisely, O'Connagh hadn't let Don take Charlie's statement, and despite initial disagreements Don by now was very grateful for that. After the things he'd had to read... Not only the things he already knew, the second abduction and that helplessness in that hole, all the suffering in such cruelly sober writing... For about four days, Charlie had been thinking he was going to die in that lonely and cold and dark tomb, whether he was going to die of thirst, of hunger, of drowning or of the fever. Don didn't even want to imagine his feelings of desperation and helplessness.

"A bit of post traumatic stress is totally normal, Charlie," he now said, trying hard to maintain his calm voice. "But the way you're handling it..."

"I've already consulted a psychiatrist! What else do you want?"

He didn't have to think long about the answer. "We want you to become the person you were before."

It seemed as if he had said exactly the wrong thing. "I'm already trying!" Charlie shouted, and now the desperation was clearly perceivable in his voice. And he even started, to Don's displeasure, to limp about in the dark and not exactly well-organised garage. For Don, it was nothing less than a miracle that he didn't fall over a cardboard box or a chair and break his neck.

"I've been trying the whole time to become normal again!" Charlie continued his lament. "But it doesn't work! You've seen it with your own eyes; I can't even fix the light when the electricity fails! As soon as... as soon as there's only... As soon as there's anything that makes me think of the mafia, the lights in my head go out! I stop thinking, do you understand? And then there's only this panic and I just can't... It just doesn't stop! All day long people keep asking me how I'm doing! Nobody thinks I'm capable of anything anymore; I've simply become a burden you carry along with yourself! Everyone puts on kid gloves first before even looking at me! And all those pitying looks... Damn it, why can't it just stop?"

Breathing heavily, he stood before his big brother. He could sense that he had just divulged much about his inner life, among it a lot that he had wanted to conceal. And that was exactly what made him even angrier: Why couldn't he just cope with it?

"You can't expect to shake off everything just overnight, Charlie. The things that happened were awful. You need time to come to terms with everything."

Charlie's trembling became more severe as soon as he repressed his emotions. "You... you didn't talk to anyone about it."

"I did," Don contradicted simply. "To Bradford." It currently didn't matter that it hadn't been himself, but the psychiatrist who insisted.

Charlie was reduced to silence for some seconds and Don grasped his opportunity. "Nobody thinks that you're weak or a burden for us, Charlie. On the contrary." He let his words take their effect before something else occurred to him, and he continued a bit more lightly, "God, without your help we would never have been able to hunt the mobsters down! I think that makes it obvious that you're no burden to us." He paused. "You should give yourself some slack and not be so hard on yourself."

Charlie still didn't seem convinced. And he was still filled with this nervous energy. "You don't have that," he stated. When Don didn't understand, he continued: "This irrational fear. That... that any moment some guys could jump out from behind the black-boards and... You don't have that," he repeated.

Don laughed, incredulous. "I do," he contradicted. "I certainly do, Chuck."

Charlie was frowning. His eyes showed doubt. "And what are you afraid of?"

Don didn't answer at once. He had a lot of answers he could give, but he didn't like revealing any of it. It wasn't without reason that Charlie considered him fearless. For until now, Don had always managed to conceal what he was afraid of quite well.

This time, however, he couldn't keep his silence. This wasn't about his pride; this was more important. He had to help Charlie to get back up on his feet. He had to help him get some help. "For example when I called you and nobody answered." He had to clear his throat; this was a high wire act: a light tone, but a serious facial expression. The light tone somehow got lost in the process of speaking. "I was afraid that you had disappeared, that the mafia had abducted you again. And..." he hesitated, but finished what he had begun. "And I'm afraid that you might not be able to cope with what happened and that you might do something because you think you couldn't talk to anyone about it."

That hat hit home. Charlie was silent. For a long moment. At least long enough to calm down again. Before he answered, he lowered himself down to the floor, groaning softly and being careful with his knee that was still healing in a support bandage. His voice was perfectly controlled, almost resigned when he turned towards Don. "What am I supposed to do?"

God, considering that Charlie wasn't helpless, he sounded awfully lost.

Don suppressed a sympathetic groan. He took his time to get control of his emotions again, trying to avoid irritating his brother with his compassion, and sat down on the floor beside him. "Accept the help that is offered to you. You have to talk about it, and the ones who know you know that. And if they ask you and you're feeling like crap – then tell them; that's why they ask! We want to help you Charlie, so that you get back on your feet again."

Charlie was silent. Don couldn't support the silence any longer and thus repeated, "Let us help you. Talk to us."

In the wan moonlight that penetrated into the garage, Don couldn't see any more than Charlie's silhouette. From the tone of his voice, however, he could deduce that his brother must have put on a slight grin. "You're a fine one to talk," Charlie said, and for a moment Don wondered what he was talking about. But Charlie didn't let him stay unenlightened for long. "You would never ever do what you just advised me to do."

Don could feel that a grin crept onto his face as well. "And so? Who told you that of all people you should model yourself on me?"

Charlie smiled wearily. No, indeed nobody had ever told him to model himself on his big brother. But after all, he had never really let people tell him what to do. And seriously: how could people not model themselves on Don? He was always so self-assured, always knew what was to be done, was always a source of strength and of support... Quite the opposite to him. Charlie too would love to be as self-assured as his big brother, would like to be without all his insecurities, would also like to have this strength.

"I don't know if I can do that," he confessed. "Become the person I was before."

The smile that appeared on Don's face was the first relaxed one he'd had for weeks. Charlie understood. He knew what had to be done and he wanted to come back. "That doesn't matter," Don said, laying his arm back around his shoulders, and this time it was tolerated and not shaken off. "For I know exactly that you're gonna make it."

He could feel Charlie's shoulders relax as if he had taken a burden from them.

A few seconds passed in silence. When Charlie spoke again, Don could hear the suppressed smile in his voice: "Don't you dare tell anyone about this."

Also Don began to grin. "About me running out of the FBI building in total fright and driving through two red lights on my way here? Forget it, not gonna happen."

Charlie laughed. It was brief and low and hoarse and sounded only approximately like the way it had sounded before; but still the sound had an overwhelming effect on Don. It hadn't occurred to him until now that this was the first time since the abduction that he'd heard his brother laugh, and he now knew that he was going to take care that it would not be the last time.

The first step had already been taken. They had won against the mafia. And if Charlie's laugh was going to keep away the demons, it was clear to Don that the two of them would also win back their lives. In any case they would fight the fight side by side. And that was what mattered.

– the end –


End file.
